Blood and Tea
by madasmonty
Summary: After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?  Multi-chaptered. Complete.
1. Chapter One

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

**Chapter One**

"_See, I've been thinking… about what she said they'd do to me…"  
>– <em>_**Owen, "Being Human", Series 1 Episode 6**_

**Owen**

When Owen opened his eyes he wished he hadn't. When they were shut, in the moment between sleeping and waking, the world was bad enough: Painful, tasting of blood and smelling of something worse, a world that you'd want to keep at bay for as long as you could. But now, staring into the sickly half-light, he could see enough to remember where he was and wish he'd had the sense to keep his eyes closed.

The tiny flat which he'd managed to acquire stank of last night's piss-up, and what little light that crawled through the tiny box windows shone the walls a grim white colour. The floor was strewn with smashed teacups – he'd gotten furious at the china set for looking at him funny, and smashed them onto the wooden floor in a rage.

_She _had always made him tea. She was always making it, twenty-four seven. He went to make himself tea and he couldn't – there weren't any goddamn mugs! Every surface was covered in half-drunk cups, every counter ringed with tea stains. It drove him bloody insane. Everything she did drove him up the wall. And when he'd found that thong. Well, that was the last straw. The fury had coursed through his veins like magma, flaming in his core and making his eyes burn. His hands were like iron as he gripped her ridiculously soft flesh, so malleable and innocent. Her voice was so fucking _whiney._ Why didn't she just shut up? Shut up! _Shut up_! _SHUT UP_!

Calm down, Owen, calm down. She's gone, remember? Just like the doctors said. Gone away to Heaven, where she can't hurt him anymore. There were no big bad wolves. No vampires. No _her._

What's the matter, Owen? Can't say _her_ name, huh? Too afraid she'll get you? Too scared she'll come flying out from this shadow – that shadow – the other shadow – and drag you into Hell? No. Of course not. Then say it. Go on. I dare you. Say it. Say –

"Annie." The name rang out into the silence, mocking him with its soft beginning and harsh consonant, breaking the gentle rhythm. An-nee.

He began to shake uncontrollably. Lying there on the floor, surrounded by broken china and broken dreams, Owen began to cry.

Because he still loved her. He still fucking loved the bitch. That was why he was so scared. He'd put on an act, like a pantomime villain, because he was so afraid that she was back from the dead and going to expose him as the killer he was. What if he'd gone to jail? When really, he wanted to hug her and smell her hair and tell her she was beautiful, he was laughing at her and calling her pathetic.

Because she _was _pathetic. Her useless haunting and stupid warnings and vampire/werewolf threats. He was glad she was dead. It was one less to add to the surplus population. Hell, he'd done the world a favour! Getting rid of –

The most beautiful woman ever to walk the planet. His once-fiancé. The love of his twisted, messed-up life. Annie, with the lovely name and the happy personality.

Yeah, who he'd cheated on with that slut-hoe Janey. Her sweaty orange-tanned skin sliding against his. Her coarse voice begging for more, more, more. Her lipstick smudging off onto his lips, smearing him with her secret.

No. Stop now. It's alright, Owen. None of that mattered anymore, did it? No. Because she was dead, dead, dead. Annie, that was. Not Janey. He gave a strangled laugh, the tears still leaking out of his eyes. No, Janey was still very much alive. She'd come to visit him, he recalled vaguely. Sometime in The White Room, after the old man who asked about the vampires and werewolves and Annie.

Owen had called her a bitch, he remembered now. He'd said she was in league with Annie all along, waiting to turn him mad. Well, who was laughing now? He'd won! He'd freaking _won_! He was safe in here: from Janey and her slutty advances, from Annie and her scary friends, from the whole darn world!

For some reason, Janey hadn't come back.

Rolling onto his stomach, Owen groaned. He knew he should make a move to get up, to start the day and do something. Clean up the china. Clear off that manky stain on the wall. Do _something._

Suddenly, he had an idea. He was out now. Out and _she – _Annie – was out too. Just one time, he wanted to see her. He wanted to prove the doctors wrong or right, make sure he was safe from her once and for all, and then go back to living his life.

Owen would pay Annie a little visit.


	2. Chapter Two

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

"_Mum… I'm hungry."  
><em>_**- Bernie, "Being Human", Series 1 Episode 4**_

**Owen**

"They 'ent here."

Owen stared at the specimen – _woman, Owen, she's a woman_ – before him. Her head was covered with what he assumed were pink spiky rollers, but appeared more to him like instruments of torture. Flakes of skin were nestled in her grey curls and prominently pink against the washed out colour. Crumbs of what appeared to be biscuits, but Owen didn't want to look any closer to confirm this assumption, were sitting inside the folds of skin around her mouth. As she opened her mouth to speak, he saw that she had been aiming for her lips when applying her lipstick, but had failed and stained her yellowing teeth a shocking pink colour instead.

Feeling sick, he forced a smile and said as politely as he could: "I'm sorry?"

"They 'ent 'ere. John Mitchell and George Sands. Their 'ouse blew up, dinnit? Gas fire or summat."

"Did they leave a forwarding address?"

She peered at him through her creased eyelids. "'Ere," she said, a note of suspicion entering her voice, "You 'ent a reporter or nothin', are you? 'Cause I tells them reporters, I tells 'em that _I _don't know where they went off to. Why would I know why they missin', eh?"

Owen was having such trouble understanding what she was saying that he'd quite lost the train of the conversation. He nodded in what he hoped was a sincere way and smiled again.

"It's fine," he assured her, turning to walk back down the path. "Thank you anyway, for your time."

He started to walk back the way he'd came, up her garden path, when he was stopped by a shout from the old woman: "Hey!"

Daring to hope, he turned back. "Yes?" He battled to keep his eyes from lighting up with eagerness – maybe she'd remembered something about where they'd gone?

"You dropped your key-ring."

Bending down quickly to pick up his crucifix key-ring, Owen silently thanked God that she'd called after him. Imagine – going to face down a vampire without some form of protection! He'd also taken garlic, a silver knife and a cricket bat in his car with him. He had no idea what these fucking freaks were hurt by, and he'd wanted to take every precaution.

_Those black, black eyes… staring at him… just for a split second…_

No. Stop it, Owen. You're going to get them back, aren't you? You'll find them – _her _– somehow. How dare they frighten you? Put voices in your head? They thought they'd won, didn't they? Those sick, monstrous, freaks of nature. He'd show them.

He wasn't crazy! No sir-y! _They _were the crazy ones. Absolutely mental for thinking he'd be scared off for good by some stupid threats, some secret…

_Oh God. The Secret. The secret that only the dead knew…_

_Her lips centimetres from his ear; her breath blowing gently onto him as her voice whispered the cruel words for his hearing only. Like they had done before, in their bedroom together, before he'd killed her…_

SHUT. UP.

Somehow, Owen realised that he'd made it to the end of the path and out of the gate. He looked around him, completely unsure of what to do next. The house that he'd once owned, the house that Mitchell and George – and Annie – had once lived in, was now nothing more than a big wooden sign, claiming: _New houses coming soon from only – _Yeah. He'd lost interest.

"Hey, mister?" A laughably northern accent came from behind him. Spinning on his heel, Owen saw a boy of about ten years old, with dark brown hair and an oddly pained expression. He was bouncing a football with one hand and staring at him.

"What?" He hissed, unnecessarily harshly. He expected the boy to shrink back in surprise, but he didn't. He just kept bouncing the ball and watching him with an almost… _hungry_ expression.

Suddenly every fear that Owen thought had been drugged away came rushing back. The black eyes – _Mitchell was killing 80 years before you were born_. The howling wolves that had hunted him in his room every full moon – _You should see George on a full moon._ The nurses turning off the light at night, and him screaming until it was turned back on – _Don't ever, ever, turn out the light._

"Hey. Are you okay?"

Owen blinked and he was back. Back on the dump of a street. Back in the dump of Bristol. Back to square one: Looking for Annie. His dead fiancé. Yes. That was right.

"Oh yeah," he said in a wanna-be-casual voice. "I'm fine."

"Did you say you were looking for Mitchell?" The boy asked. His northern accent was beginning to grate on Owen.

He slammed the boy's head onto the pavement and watched as the blood gushed out onto the stone, staining the tarmac scarlet. His goddamn football rolled away, forgotten and useless. The sound of bone smashing on stone. The feeling of cartilage shatter –

No.

He didn't. He was in control. He was sane now, right? Yep. That was him. Sane, sane, sane. Not like _them._ The freaks. Okay. Quiet now.

"Yeah," He replied to the boy. "Why? Do you know where he is?"

"Last I heard he was in a place called Honolulu Heights, in Barry. Mitchell used to write to me to see how I was doing." He stopped bouncing the ball for a second and looked sadly into the distance. "The letters stopped now, though."

"Right, thanks kid." Owen smiled in what he hoped was a friendly way, not a wolfish way.

"My name's Bernie." The kid said, catching his football in one hand and holding the other hand out for Owen to take. Owen shook his head.

"Sorry." He said, quietly. "I don't do hand-shakes."

"Oh." Bernie withdrew his hand and looked momentarily wounded. "Look," he said, "Whatever trouble you got into to need to see Mitchell, you better get out of it quick. That guy's bad news."

Owen laughed a little. "Oh trust me," he said, turning away from Bernie to return to his car, "I'll give him bad news."


	3. Chapter Three

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

"_If I could teach myself to fight small urges, then I could train myself to resist much bigger ones…"  
><em>_**- Hal, "Being Human", Series 4 Episode 2**_

**Hal**

Hal momentarily considered pulling his mouth away from her neck, but decided against it. He was squeamish about the contraction of his teeth from her jugular, given that they were so firmly embedded into the flesh it would be quite the extraction. But not yet, of course. No, she still had blood for him to swallow.

He was ever so careful with his drinking – latching his lips around their necks before sinking his fangs in so as to not spill any of their precious blood. His tongue acted like a kind of sponge, licking up any residue redness that might have escaped his gulping, while his teeth caged in the blood and stopped it from dripping everywhere. Hal couldn't stand a mess. He shuddered to imagine the horror of the scarlet liquid everywhere, staining the walls and the floor. The fountain of arterial blood, which spurted wonderfully into his mouth, spraying across the air in an arc of red. Ruining the order. It was sickening.

He allowed his teeth to sink further into the mush of her soft throat, feeling her neck thinning as he slowly tore her flesh away. She was long since dead, obviously, but she could still give him pleasure. Humans – the gifts that kept on giving. As Hal's teeth closed through her neck, he accepted the inevitability of her decapitation. Luckily she was basically bloodless, so her head coming off wouldn't cause undue messy-blood-everywhere OCD stress.

He clamped his jaw down, hard, and allowed a large portion of her throat to part with the rest of it with a marvellous squelching sound. As was to be expected, her head and body fell in two distinct parts onto the floor. Her head, missing a chunk of neck, rolled awkwardly for a few centimetres before coming to a halt. Her body however, just collapsed onto the floor like a discarded lover and lay there. Her arms were sprawled out either side of her, almost in a mock crucifix pose. Her legs had been crushed beneath her body when she'd fallen, making her hips rise at an oddly sexual angle. Or at least, Hal reasoned, it _would_ be sexual. If she wasn't missing her head.

The aforementioned head, after it had stopped it short journey across the floor, had come to a halt on its side. It took him a few moments to realise that its eyes were open – a shocking blue – and blank. But it looked, for the entire world, as if they were glaring at him. As if, somehow, those eyes had retained the life they had once held, and it was staring right at him from the death which he would never know.

Collapsing beside her body, Hal spat out the piece of her throat and began to weep uncontrollably. So lost in the bloodlust as he had been, he hadn't even noticed her ghost depart. What had her name been? How old was she? Did she have a family? A boyfriend? A job? Who would care that she was lying there, decapitated, in some shitty alleyway in Barry?

"I'm so sorry," He gasped through the tears. He grabbed her head and violently began to shove it back onto her savaged neck, as if the snapped arteries and veins would magically glue back together. "I'm so, so, sorry." _Yes, I'm sorry that it didn't last longer._

Every time he tried to leave her head on her shoulders it fell off again. "No, no, no, no." Hal muttered. Giving up on sticking her back together, he lay the head as close to the body as it could get, so that she looked like a whole person. Missing a chunk of her neck,

He stood up and wiped his hands clean of imaginary blood, as if he could somehow wipe himself clean of the blood of thousands of innocents. Sniffing slightly, he blinked a couple of times as tomorrow's headlines swam before his vision: _Ritualistic Murder in Alley, Decapitation Horror! _ He'd seen them all before, a countless number of them. All the papers trying to be the first to cover the story. They were almost as vampiric as he was, draining the life out of every single scrap of news they could before finally moving onto the next big thing.

Finally composing himself, and hoping he had no blood on his face, Hal turned away from the horrific – _tasty, freeing, wonderful_ – scene and headed for the steadily growing morning light at the end of the alleyway.


	4. Chapter Four

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

"_When it comes to pure naked evil you're an amateur. I want you to know you've wondered off the path. This is where the wild things are…"  
><em>_**- Annie, "Being Human", Series 1 Episode 5**_

**Owen**

Owen knew he was a monster from the second he saw him.

He had a calm exterior – of course he did, don't we all? – which was masking the beast inside. He could see right through it, with his special eyes. Ever since he'd learnt the Secret, Owen _knew _things about people. He saw things that other people couldn't see.

For example, the nurse working on his ward, who came to visit him every night. She told him that he was special because he could see her, and that he had to help her find her Door. "What nurse?" The psychiatrist would say. Owen would tell him: "Nurse Jennings." He would sigh and shake their heads. "There is no Nurse Jennings, Owen."

But there was. Owen had seen her. He _knew._

Remember, Owen? Remember the outpatient who came into the reception and stank of dog? Owen had been staring at him so intently that he hadn't blinked for about a minute, and then the man had turned around to face him. Owen had seen his face elongate and his ears grow pointed. His jaws had snapped open and revealed white, sharp fangs ready to gobble him up. He had screamed and screamed, clawing at the wall of the reception where he'd been allowed to sit for a while, falling off his chair and crawling backwards, desperate to get away from the man who smelt of dog. The _werewolf._

And the man before him, coming down the street with a confident and wide stride, was no different. He had an aura of death about him as thick as a brick wall, partitioning him off from the rest of the world. His eyes were old, like they had seen too much, but his face was young. His hair was dark and styled in such a way that was attempting to be modern, but failing awfully. His expression was haunted; that of a man who had done countless terrible things. He looked like Mitchell, but he wasn't. However, Owen knew why they looked the same: They were both vampires.

_I should be afraid,_ Owen thought, calmly. But he wasn't. He was observing the man – the _vampire_ – through a glass wall, cut off and distant. He seemed to be a million miles away from his body and was orbiting somewhere far away, watching at a distance. The space between himself and the vampire was immeasurable. Mentally, that was. Physically… not so much.

Closer up now, Owen could see that the vampire was haggard and rough, as if he'd not been sleeping. His hair was wild and stuck up about his head like a crown of thorns. His eyes were sunken and shadowed, ringed with light shades of purple.

A sudden thought struck Owen. Surely there were only a small number of these monsters in the world, or they'd have been found out by now? Oh yes. He congratulated himself on his smartness. If so, what were the chances of this freak knowing Annie? He reasoned they were rather high indeed.

So what was a man to do?

Follow the vampire that was what. The stalker becoming the stalked. He smiled at the thought, pleased to have been so clever. The vampire would lead him to Annie and everything would be alright once he had her in his arms again.

_To choke the life out of her and feel her veins being crushed beneath his hands…_

To hug her and tell her he was so, so, sorry…

Shaking his head and continuing past the vampire, Owen tried to clear his head of the confusing thoughts. He just had to find her first. Then he'd decide what to do with her. Find her first. Don't get ahead of yourself.

And then, with an abrupt turn of his heel, Owen spun around and began to slowly and cautiously follow the vampire down the street.


	5. Chapter Five

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five<strong>

"_What I was? No, you stole that from me. You dragged me into this world. You killed my wife, turned into a murderer. An addict…"  
><em>_**- Cutler, "Being Human", Series 4 Episode 7**_

**Cutler**

Jeffery Hope was halfway through his roast beef sandwich when the door of his taxi opened, and a young man slipped inside.

The rain had darkened his hair, plastered it smooth to his pale forehead. He'd been caught out in the sudden storm without an umbrella or coat, and his suit was soaked through and beginning to smell. His features were neither plain nor handsome, but occupied an unlikely, indeterminate space between; he was educated and suffered from mild social awkwardness.

Hope saw all of that in his rear view mirror in the time it took the passenger to close the taxi door. He bored him already.

"Sorry," Hope said, using a napkin to wipe the mustard from his chin. "I'm engaged at present, Mr…?"

The man pushed a strand of wet hair from his eyes. "Mr. Cutler." He answered, before smiling apologetically. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise."

"It's all right. You can sit for a moment, if you like. Dry off a bit."

He smiled, and tipped the scale toward handsome. "Thank you, Mr. Hope. I promise I won't be long."

He turned at that, shifting in his seat just in time to see him pull a dry manila folder from beneath the bulk of his jacket. He opened it, and Hope saw the words _Hope, Jeffery_ written on the front in small, neat handwriting.

"You shouldn't have that," Hope said. "I'm fairly sure that sort of thing is confidential."

"I'm fairly sure you're right," the man said, and paused before continuing: "Do you think, Mr. Hope, that people underestimate you because you drive a taxi for a living?"

Hope meets his eyes and saw the stillness there. The patience. Rain rang against the taxi roof. "The thought's occurred to me."

The man looked down at the file folder and his wet hair dripped onto the paper. "It's an incredible act of trust, isn't it? Getting in a car with a stranger. Putting your safety in their hands. But we don't think twice about it, not if the stranger's a cabbie." He looks up, his eyes bright. "Is that trust? Or do we just forget to fear the people we don't see?"

Hope's fists clenched. "Who are you?"

"I think people have always underestimated you, Mr. Hope. Your family, your employers, your ex-wife. Your children. You must miss them."

"If you're threatening my children—" Hope hissed, feeling suddenly empowered to protect them. To do something against this odd mix of charm and unnaturalness that was personified in the back of his taxi.

The stranger sat back, genuine hurt in his eyes. "I would _never_." He paused. "Well, I would, but that's neither here nor there." He lifted his shoulders in a little shrug.

Hope's hand twitched toward the gun beneath his seat. "Who do you work for?"

"Oh, I'm self-employed. Used to have an employer, but he's gone now." He closed the file folder and lowered it to his lap. Tapped his fingers against his knees. "Yes, he's long gone."

There was a moment of silence, before: "Do you know what I am, Mr. Hope?"

He looked at the man again, properly, and this time he _saw_ – The stranger's dark eyes; the paleness of his skin; the hunger in his expression; the depths that seemed to lurk deep in his irises.

"I…" Mr. Hope's voice became lodged in the recesses of his throat and he found himself unable to continue. Every childhood nightmare was rushing through his head at break-neck speed: the stories his German Nanny used to read to him from an old dusty book that had never quite lost their power over him – The Ratcatcher with his pipe, who stole children away from their homes. The Erlkönig, the King of the Elves, with eyes made of ice and an army of wolves at his beckoning. The Draugr, a race of pale-faced men with fangs who drank blood to survive.

Nick Cutler reached across to the window and pulled down the blind with a swift tug, obscuring the outside world's view of the events which were about to take place. He was smiling pleasantly now – this was a regular routine for him.

"Please…" Hope whispered, his voice hitching in his throat, "Please don't kill me… I don't want to die."

It took Nick all of two seconds to dart across the taxi and grab Hope's neck, shoving him against the wall. His mouth centimetre's away from Hope's jugular, white fangs glinting in the light, he laughed: "Then you never should have been born."


	6. Chapter Six

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six<strong>

"_Nobody tells you that you can kill someone, and get away with it."  
><em>_**- Owen, "Being Human", Series 1 Episode 5**_

**Owen**

The day before she died, Owen's mother turned over enough evidence to the police to send his father to prison for the rest of his life. They took him from the house not long before dawn, his hands cuffed behind his back.

"I'm glad she's dead," Owen said to himself, sitting on the stairs. "I wish she'd died slower."

The police were taking the house apart, piece by piece. Searching for evidence. Preserving the crime scene. One policeman looked up and gave him a stunned, unsettled look – he heard.

Owen lifted his gaze from the floor and stared at the policeman. There was something chilling in his eyes – a kind of dead fury and lack of empathy that should not belong to anyone, least of all someone as young as Owen. It twisted his face and made him look ugly. There was something inhumane in his eyes, and the policeman saw it.

Owen put a single finger to his lips and smiled at him.

* * *

><p>His mother was his first kill; Owen would learn fast. He slit her coronary artery too slowly, wanting to save every second of her death. Unfortunately for him he didn't count on the screaming that had alerted the neighbours. He'd wanted his mother to pay for all the things she'd said – a monster, she'd called him.<p>

When the key had turned with an audible _click _from the outside of her bedroom door, Owen's mother, Mary, had shut her eyes for a moment. She didn't turn around from her mirror to see her son, who was standing in the middle of the room with a smile on his face.

"The evidence has been placed, you know." She said, wearily. "The police will still take your father."

"Yes." Owen said in a tight voice, "I know. But you can still regret what you did, Mother. I'm going to make you apologize to me for taking my father away."

"Apologize?" She'd scoffed at that. "My husband locks me in a room with my son, who is about to kill me, and you expect me to _apologize_?"

"Oh no," Owen smiled, "I didn't say I _expected_ you to apologize. I said I was going to _make_ you."

An involuntary shiver ran through her then. It was a subconscious response to him. She was the prey and he was the predator, and every single cell in her body was screaming to run, run, run. Primal instincts in her brain were flashing at her with white-hot intensity and something ancient was stirring in her core. When faced with such unbelievable danger and awful odds, the human body becomes a machine. External thoughts get turned off. That's what happened to Mary.

She darted towards the window without a second thought. She knew, deep down in her subconscious, that she had no chance. She _knew _that he was going to catch her – hell she welcomed it – but even so, it was not by her own doing that she ran, but by her hard-wired, genetically-engrained need to survive.

Sure enough, Owen darted across the room and slammed her into the wall, causing dust to fall from the ceiling on impact and float down, settling in Mary's hair. The bang echoed throughout the house, and Owen momentarily wondered if the neighbours would hear the noise that was sure to occur soon. He pushed the thoughts from his mind and focussed at the task in hand, clasping her throat in his hand and smiling in what might be considered a loving gesture.

"Now." He tightened his grip ever so slightly, piercing her skin with nails and making little beads of red appear, "Say sorry." 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven<strong>

"_You say God made man in His own image. But what if that included His __rage__, and His __spite__, and His __indifference__, and His __cruelty__?  
><em>_**- Mitchell, "Being Human", Series 2 Episode 8**_

_****_**Owen**

Owen shakily leant against the alley wall and promptly threw up. The darkening sky and dimmed taxi lights hadn't blocked the spray of blood across the window, the scream of dying agony, the sound of thick liquid being sucked. And moaning. Whoever was in the taxi was enjoying their meal.

Owen had followed the vampire down the street and stood, silent and sentinel, as the parasite had gotten into the black taxi. He'd waited, sure that the vampire would come out sooner or later. But then the low muffled voices had gotten higher and louder and then the dash of blood had blinded him.

Blood. Just like the blood that stained the tiles under Annie's head when she'd fallen. He'd spent weeks washing it all off but it was never really gone. The blood on the floor. The blood on his hands. The blood on the window of the taxi. Everywhere. Everywhere. His world was spinning. He could feel his knees beginning to go weak.

No. Stop it, Owen. Calm down. Look, the vampire's getting out.

It was true. The taxi door opened and a thin, suave man clambered out, wiping his chin with a napkin. He pocketed the napkin and looked around quickly. After establishing the all-clear, he began to storm down the street at a ferocious pace.

Owen wanted to follow him – the vampire was bound to lead him to the bitch – but his legs wouldn't move. He was still being supported by the wall beside him, leaning on it like a dear friend, and he didn't think he could move without flashes of light spearing into his eyes.

Just breathe. That's it. But do it quickly, or the blood-sucker will be gone by the time you go to find him.

Slowly allowing the oxygen to slip down his throat, into his lungs, be carbonated, and climb back out again, Owen adjusted to his surroundings. Slowly, slowly. Can you take a step? Yes, well done.

It was just a little blood. He didn't think it would trigger him off like this. He needed to get a grip or he'd collapse when he saw Annie – _that fucking bitch – that wonderful angel_ – again. It had been too long; he didn't know he would react. Maybe he'd just leap at her? Perhaps he'd cry?

And what would _she _do, if she saw him? That wasn't part of the plan, but perhaps the plan would go wrong. If she saw him, would she be happy? Of course not, you killed her. But maybe she missed him? Did he even _want _her to miss him? 'Course not. Yes. No. Shut up.

"Excuse me?"

The sound of a voice cut his inner rant short. Looking around, Owen realised there was no sign of the parasite who'd killed the taxi-driver. He must have left when Owen was tangled in his thoughts. Cursing mentally, he focussed instead on the voice of the speaker.

The voice was strained and eerily upper-class for the area. The consonants were clipped and short, the vowels slightly drawn out. The voice was neither high nor low, but occupied a comfortable mid-tone. There was the ghost of another accent underneath the brittle English one; Irish maybe? The words themselves rang with a forced politeness, was if manners were something the speaker had learnt from a dictionary, and he was uncertain that it was entirely correct.

Owen knew all of this without even turning to face the source of the voice.

Then he got a whiff of… _death._ It was the same aura and scent that had hung over the taxi-driver's murderer like a billowing cloak. The same sense of utter wrongness and repellence. He knew, with an un-shaking certainty, that the man behind him was a vampire.

But, even without his knowledge, Owen would have known the speaker was a vampire because, when he faced him, he was greeted with a pair of onyx-black eyes and grinning fangs.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight<strong>

"_Everybody dies. Sorry… Can I start that again? Everybody deserves a death."  
>– <em>_**Annie, "Being Human", Series 1 Episode 1**_

**Hal**

The end would feel like the beginning. And nothing could have prepared him for it.

Each kill was different. There were some archetypical symptoms – the way their pupils dilated and their breath quickened; the sound of their heart beat increasing rapidly and the scent of their sweat – but their words and actions differed. Some begged and pleaded; _"I have a wife" _was on his personal favourites. Some shouted and swore; _"If you come near me, you bloody freak, I will fucking scream._" Didn't they understand? The screaming was the most satisfying part.

But this one – this victim – was the most different Hal had ever encountered. He didn't scream or beg or even try to run. He just stood and looked at him, as if he was not afraid. As if he'd known, before he turned around, what Hal was.

Hal took a sharp intake of breath through his nose, but he couldn't smell wolf or that musky scent of a ghost, and this man certainly wasn't a vampire.

He decided he didn't care how this man wasn't scared of him. In fact, it was refreshing. His meals fought back too frequently. His arms shot out, gripping the man around the forearms with his clawed hands, and he dragged the stranger into the alley where he'd just exited from.

Extending his fangs, Hal smiled at the stranger.

_Oh Romeo, oh Romeo, where art thou Romeo? _Shakespeare whispered in his mind. Hal had a technique he'd developed himself, before he met Leo, in which he recited Shakespeare quotes in his head. It calmed him and stopped him from going on an unstoppable mass killing spree, and it gave him something to focus on before his thoughts became incoherent with blood. It especially helped if there was a female involved. Women bought out the beast in him, as it were.

_It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood._ Shakespeare hissed in his head. Hal advanced.

Everything went black, and then spotted with red.

* * *

><p><strong>Owen<strong>

The beginning would feel like the end. And nothing could have prepared him for it.

Sound came first – a gathering storm rushing all around him. Screaming, howling, unending. Both high and low. Both silent and deafening. Both beautiful and terrible. He wanted to cover his ears but he had no hands. He wanted to scream but his mouth hadn't formed yet.

Feeling. He was raw and burning – as if scalding nails were being dragged over his flesh and his bones were on fire. He felt like he didn't have enough skin and so it had been stretched to the breaking point to cover his bones. His skin was splitting and his insides were pouring out. He was everywhere and nowhere.

Then, all of a sudden, he had a mouth. Teeth were cluttering in the gaping hole in his flaming face and slotting into place, snapping and remoulding. His tongue stretched, flattened and began to search the cavern of his mouth frantically. Braving the outside, he found that his tongue could feel his lips – dry and cracked.

He let out a scream of utter anguish. His lungs were still forming, and with every single cell that was recreated his scream got louder and louder. He was letting all the sorrow and agony inside him spill out of his newly made lips and into the air. He could feel every molecule of oxygen shredding through his throat and twisting itself into carbon dioxide, before digging its way out of his mouth. It went on and on as if it would never stop.

He felt his hands. His bones stretched out and separated with a click, audible and deafening to his new ears. His nails grew from the tips of his fingers and he could feel every cell divide and multiply, forming his hands and arms. He flexed his fingers and felt pleased when his nails cut through the palms of his hands lightly.

Legs. Stretching and crunching and twisting. He could feel each artery winding down and around his femurs and fusing at the end of his feet. He had _feet_. His skin stretched and bent around his bones and muscles rose up against the innards of his legs. There was a deafening _snap_ as his toenails clicked out from under his skin.

Suddenly he felt a crushing sense of existence, slamming into him and filling every fibre of his being. He was _here_ and he was _alive._

And, with that, Owen opened his eyes and drew a long, deep breath.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nine<strong>

"_I've got this friend. He says the __human condition__, human nature, being human, is to be cold and alone."_ _  
>– <em>_**Mitchell, "Being Human", Pilot Episode**_

**Owen**

In the beginning, there was fire.

Fire in his legs and lungs; fire tearing through every nerve and cell in his body. That is how he was born again – in pain: he emerged from the suffocating heat and the darkness. He forced his way through a black space of strange noises and smells.

Inch by inch, he crawled through the nothingness and back into the searing white light. Centimetre by aching centimetre. Cell by cell.

That was how he came into the world, this new Owen.

* * *

><p>He was in a black tunnel filled with mist. There were men at the end of the tunnel – men with sticks and ropes. Their faces were silhouetted, but he could make out their weapons. However, surprisingly, he wasn't afraid. This was <em>meant <em>to be. It was okay. He was going to somewhere new now…

"Wake up. Come on, come on, _come on_!"

The voice pulled Owen back from the tunnel, and for a moment he was horribly disappointed when he opened his eyes and the world swam into view. He couldn't think; the world was fractured into tiny shards of sight. Black hair. Brown eyes. A slightly lilted posh accent. Pieces of a puzzle he couldn't make sense of.

"Come on. That's right, stay with me. Tom where the _hell _are you? Get me the decanter."

A hand was under Owen's neck and, suddenly, salvation. A sensation of liquid pouring thickly down his throat and over his chin. It melted away the agony and the taste of fire. He began to cough and choke, almost spitting it out. Then he swallowed, slowly and carefully, and the oddly accented voice whispered encouragement to him: _That's it. Big gulps. You're doing so well._

After that, the fever wrenched him under again. Owen's moments of waking were few, and his vision was disjointed. More hands. More voices. A familiar, high, voice – _No, no, no_ – over and over again, as though they would never stop. Breath hitching in someone's throat.

Almost every time he woke fully, the stranger was there. The one who shouted for the decanter when he first awoke. The stranger was smiling without showing his teeth, awkwardly. He told Owen to close his eyes and Owen complied – he was too confused and tired to do anything else. More warm liquid came and Owen drank it down thirstily, his lips locking onto the rim of the glass and his teeth gnashing for more.

Finally, after he didn't know how long, consciousness greeted him like an old friend and didn't let go. His mind formed fully, coloured, images of the past events – the taxi murder, the vampire, the fangs. The pain. And slowly, Owen rode the wave of consciousness and awareness all the way back to the shore of reality.

* * *

><p>He must have survived the vampire attack; that much he knew. But… did that mean…? No. Don't think about it, Owen. Whatever happened, you're here now. You're safe.<p>

The creaking sound of doors opening alerted him to someone entering the room.

His head darted up faster than a blink. He knew before he laid eyes on her who it was. He sensed the slight change in temperature, the slight increase of _presence_ in the room, the scent of muskiness.

Annie stood before him in his vulnerable position on the sofa, her eyes a stormy grey.

"Hello Owen."


	10. Chapter Ten

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Ten<strong>

_"Let justice be done, though the heavens fall."_**  
><em>- Herrick, "Being Human", Series 3 Episode 7<em>  
><strong>

**Annie**

For a moment, just a second, the world seemed to blink. Like a camera, the shutter closing and opening – preserving that second forever in her memory.

Owen lying on her sofa, his hair damp with sweat and shining in the dim light. The way his breath was coming fast, as if he couldn't let in enough air with every gasp. His teeth were stained with the blood that Hal had been giving him. His eyes were wide with surprise and – was that right? – Fear.

It was impossible, of course, that she should feel anything other than contempt. After what he had done to her, she couldn't allow herself to feel pity. After he'd done what? Given her Mitchell, George, Nina? Made her be able to rent-a-ghost and move objects with her mind. He destroyed her with the fire of his fury, only to allow her to rebuild herself. Like a phoenix, rising from the ashes of her death.

If anything, Annie should thank him.

But she didn't say anything. She didn't move, save from her chest, which was rising and falling rapidly. She'd spoken now, and the words were strange in her mouth. Like exotic fruits that she couldn't decide the flavour of – familiar and nice, or horrible and strange. _"Hello Owen."_ There was nothing she could do to take those words back now, they hung in the air between them and the silence was so loud it was almost visible.

"What happened to me?" Owen croaked back to her. A flash of anger shot through her. What happened to _him_? Of course it was all about him, wasn't it? He had been so afraid of her, terrified to the point of near insanity in fact, and now, faced with the source of nightmares, he was asking about himself? He was insufferable. He was unbelievable. He was –

Only human. Of course we would ask about himself, as anyone in their right minds would. He didn't really know where he was, or why he was there. Annie had no idea what his memories were of before he'd blacked out, but she could imagine they were distorted and frightening. Obviously, Owen's first concern would be himself. As anyone's would.

Annie took a small step forward, remembering his fragile state of mind, and said, softly: "What do you remember, Owen?"

Hal had told them both – her and Tom – to use Owen's name as much as possible, so that he knew who he was. When vampire's first awoke, Hal had said, they were often confused and occasionally forgot the simplest things – who they were, their names, their ages. They had to remind him of his humanity.

"I… I remember a man…" Owen whispered, his voice a bare breath. "I remember his eyes, and his teeth. He went for me. A dark alleyway. Agony. I…" His voice trailed off and he took a deep inhale. "I know what happened. He turned me into one of those _things,_ didn't he? Like Mitchell." A pause for a second. Two seconds. "A vampire."

Annie couldn't meet his deep brown eyes. He was staring imploringly at her, willing her to look back at him reassuringly. _Please, Annie, _the look said, _Please just look at me. _But she couldn't. Not yet. She couldn't bring herself to. Instead she stared at her grey slipper-shoes and nodded mutely.

The silence went on and on, stretching into infinity in a few moments. It settled over the room like a cobweb, entrapping them in its sticky tendrils and crushing the life out of every second, every breath, every heartbeat. Owen made no move to show that he'd even acknowledged Annie's nod, and Annie didn't move an inch from her frozen position.

"Annie." The voice that came from Owen's mouth wasn't his own; it was cracked and tense and quiet. Barely a voice at all, more an animalistic sound of need for comfort. Primal. The absolute dependence on reassurance from another being. The sound that people sometimes make when they're told a loved one has died, or they are terrified or in immense pain. Or they've just been told they are a soulless vampire.

She didn't even have to think about moving. The actions came to her instinctively, without any forethought or consideration of the consequences. The movements just flowed out of her as a flood of care and compassion and pity.

Before she knew it, Annie had moved those few centimetres closer to Owen and bent down, onto her knees before him. Her arms encircled him and he laid his head on her shoulder, his breathing coming in short rasping jumps. She could feel him shaking to her touch, the wetness pouring from his eyes onto her jacket, his hitching lungs underneath his skin.

And they sat like that, the murderer and his victim, the once-loves, the ghost and the vampire, her holding him to try and chase the shadows away. He let her because he needed her like he needed air, so simple and yet without it he'd die. He craved some kind of compassion to hide inside, for now, and keep away from being a vampire and all that it meant.

But Annie needed him too. In that embrace, at some point, she forgave him. She no longer saw him as Owen Her Killer, but instead as a helpless and broken man. He had suffered enough, hadn't he? Tormented by the darkness she'd planted in his mind, driven mad by the fear of the men with sticks and ropes, twisted into a vampire because he'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was no room for hatred or fury anymore, she'd had a long time to contemplate what he had done to her. And she forgave him. The bad feelings were washed away like a tide, and a bedrock of pity was all that remained.

They needed each other. Him for her comfort, her for her own forgiveness.

When they finally broke apart, they met each other's eyes. No words needed to be exchanged, they both knew that the other was immensely sorry. _Her eyes are so beautiful_, Owen thought. _Thank you, Annie. I needed that._

_I know, _she replied with her eyes, _And I forgive you._

"Am I interrupting anything?"

The voice that broke the silence was one Owen would have known anywhere. Darkness crawled at the edges of his vision, tunnelling his sight. He was falling a thousand feet through open space, wind roaring in his ears, with no safety net. It was the voice that had rung in his head since he'd regained consciousness. The pained twang mingled with the nervous politeness. Yet, underneath, was a cold authority and lack of empathy, buried beneath the awkwardness and routine. It was the last thing Owen had heard before he had collapsed into blackness – a heartless, never-ending laugh. The voice of the vampire who had destroyed him.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eleven<strong>

"_What I was? No, you stole that from me. You dragged me into this world. You turned me into a murderer, an addict."  
>- <em>_**Cutler, "Being Human", Series 4 Episode 7**_

**Hal**

Hal didn't know how to react to the scene before him. The newly-made vampire, the accident, was in the arms of Annie, sobbing silently. He hadn't meant for them to meet one another, not yet. Everything about this was wrong, wrong, wrong. He wanted to scrub away all the events of the last two days like he would do a particularly irritating stain. Giving in to that little voice in the back of his head, attacking the woman, attacking Owen. That was what Annie had called him, wasn't it? Owen. Her fiancé.

Oh, of all the humans in the entire world, why was it someone linked to her? She had screamed when he'd dragged Owen to the threshold, the unconscious newly-turned vampire's legs dragging behind him, Hal wincing with the effort of holding up the dead weight.

"Annie." Hal managed to say, through gritted teeth. "It's okay, he's not dead. But you have to invite him in."

Her eyes had been wide and she was shaking her head wildly, her curls flicking about her face. "No, no, no." She repeated.

"Annie. Listen to me." He repeated, trying to stay calm. "He's not dead, I recruited him. Accidently. But now I need to take care of him. Please, invite him in."

She had bent down then, looking at the vampire Hal held right in the face. Her eyes were flickering around like tiny fish, never settling on one feature of him, as if she wanted to memorize his every centimetre. "Owen." She gasped. "Oh, Owen, Owen."

Hal was practically sweating from the excursion of holding the body up, but he managed to cry, "You know him?"

Annie had nodded then, pursing her lips so close together they almost disappeared. "He was my fiancé." She had whispered.

The silence went on for long enough that it became awkward. _Shit,_ Hal cursed mentally.

"H-He can come in." She breathed. Then she'd vanished.

After the painful movement of the body across the room onto the sofa, Hal had taken a deep breath. He could just kill Owen, of course, and be done with it. It would remove the issue from the equation, wouldn't it?

He inhaled through his nose, closing his eyes and mustering up the monster. He felt his fangs elongate and the blackness cloud his irises. His eyelids had flown open and he'd bore his teeth, allowing the feeling of power to course through his veins like adrenaline. He was Lord Harry again, and this stupid human would regret not running when he'd faced him; his blood would decorate the walls of this hovel. The werewolf and the ghost would not stop him. Nobody would stop him. He –

"Hal!"

Tom's ridiculous accent had pierced his darkened mind. Couldn't the hound say the l's in his name properly for once? Christ, was it too much to ask for in this place to be addressed in the right manner?

"What the _HELL_ are you doing?" That was Annie. Great. Hal knew he had to open his eyes, so open them he did. The ghost and the werewolf were staring at him, their faces wearing similar looks of concern. Hal could see, with one quick glance that Tom had a stake in his back pocket, but he hadn't reached the point of pulling it out yet. Annie had her hands on her hips and she was staring at him defiantly.

"I wanted to remove the problem of the new recruit." Hal told them, simply, imploring them to comply and compute.

The look he'd earned from Annie could have killed flowers. "His name," she had hissed, "is Owen. And nobody touches him. _You_ got him into this… this mess…" She stumbled on addressing Owen's current vampirism, "and you are sure as heck not going to just murder him to get him out of it."

Hal had nodded, and Tom had said: "Right then. Tha's tha'."

Nodding, Hal had guided them into the kitchen to brief them on the rules of dealing with Owen.

"He will be craving blood, but I don't know how long it will be before he is fully conscious, so I'll feed him some from my supply until the time when he is able to coherently display signs of bloodlust."

They had nodded, as if they understood half of the words he'd used.

"When he is awake, you are both to address him as Owen as much as you are able. Sometimes new vampires forget their humanity…" He'd paused at that, feeling the dull ache of the memory of his own awakening. Mr Snow's voice echoed in the recesses of his thoughts: _That's it, Harold. They are only here for your amusement. Let the streets run with rivers of red._ He shook his head for a second. "Sometimes they can't remember things as simple as their own name, so you need to call him Owen, alright?"

"Gotcha." Tom had replied, and Annie had nodded dumbly. She hadn't moved her gaze from the swinging double doors since entering the kitchen.

There was a beat of silence. None of them mentioned how Owen had come to be a vampire. Nobody asked why Hal had turned him. It was too painful, too soon. That would be addressed later. For now, they just needed to survive through this.

And Hal had gone to the fridge and pulled out a blood-bag. He needed to see if Owen was hungry.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twelve<strong>

"_You abandoned me. In a different world. Talk about burning my bridges."  
>- <em>_**Cutler, "Being Human", Series 4 Episode 7**_

**Owen**

Owen pulled away from Annie's embrace and stared at Hal. He wore an expression which Hal had seen a thousand times – utter terror at the mere sight of him. Hal watched as Owen gripped Annie's forearms tightly, digging his nails into her grey jacket desperately.

"Owen? Owen, listen to me. It's going to be alright. Hal's not going to hurt you." Annie's voice was as soothing as cold water on a burn, but as fast as a roaring brook as she babbled the reassurance in a river of condoling, meaningless words. Nothing could cease Owen's fear but the source of it.

Hal took a step towards his creation. Owen flinched involuntarily – a small spasm of movement which required no thought, only fear. Hal ignored it and kept walking, flickering his eyes to Annie to indicate that she move away. Owen reached out to grab her hand but she pulled away and walked to the corner of the room. Owen was alone on the sofa.

"You cannot be afraid anymore." Hal's voice was cool and calm, calculating and ancient. He was allowing a tiny fraction of his infinite knowledge into his voice. Convincing Owen. Showing Owen. "I have given you a gift." He continued, quietly, as he walked towards the sofa. He reached it and bent down, making eye contact with Owen. Owen whimpered slightly, barely a noise in his throat.

"I have made you the most powerful creature on the planet," He continued, his hypnotic words drawing Owen in as a python does with a mouse – making him believe it was slow-burning and calm. Telling him was okay. "You are top of the food chain now, Owen. There is not a being stronger, faster, deadlier than you. I have given you a gift."

Owen nodded, trance-like now. He understood. He should be thanking Hal, not fearing him. He was power incarnate. The stuff of legend.

Hal continued, mesmerizingly: "And you need not worry. I shall not let you leave this house until you are safe to stand on your own two feet. I have made the mistake of abandoning my… protégée's… before." A face flashed into Hal's mind, and he pushed it away. "Not again. I shall keep you safe from yourself, and you in turn shall distract me from other things, until we are both safe."

He sat down at the end of the sofa, leaning over Owen, awkwardly close. His breath smelt of peppermint, but that didn't mask the scent of metal beneath. No, Owen corrected himself. Not metal; blood. Hal spoke very slowly, as if each word was of the upmost importance. He seemed, in fact, to be half talking to himself. Convincing himself. "I will not leave you."

"Don't believe him."

The voice had come from the threshold of the front door, which had been left slightly ajar. Owen saw Hal freeze, the muscles in his face tense and twitch, his pupils dilate, and his breath gasp in quickly. "No." He mouthed. That was the sound of a voice he didn't think he would hear ever again. A voice he hadn't heard in over half a century. _I can't. Not my wife. Please._

The door creaked slowly open, having been pushed lazily by the man standing in the frame, just on the edge of entering, casually leaning against the wall and watching them both. He wore a scruffy dark suite, stained a little with smatterings of red. His hair, once so carefully styled and groomed, was wild and dishevelled. His mouth was curled into a self-satisfied smile.

"Hello, Hal." Nick Cutler said.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirteen<strong>

"_You know the Old Ones. They kill at will but they don't recruit lightly._ _They choose a protégée. It's an eternal bond_._"  
>- <em>_**Herrick, "Being Human", Series 3 Episode 6**_

**Cutler**

_Don't hate me, Nick. I have given you a gift. You are a god among men._

Nick shook his head slightly, pushing out the residue of the past from his mind. Now was not the time to be nostalgic. He had a job to do. And no fucking clue how to do it.

He walked up the path to Honolulu Heights, the path he'd seen Hal take while dragging a limp body with him. A new recruit, Nick reasoned. One who Hal was going to sweet-talk, lie to, and eventually rip everything from. He knew the score; he'd been a victim of it. The smiles, the soft voice, the calm questioning.

_Do you still dream of killing animals, Nick?_

The way Hal pretended to actually care. His fingers – so cold and soft – spidering up Nick's arms in the pretence of embrace. His smile – the way his lips curled in a slightly mocking way, as if he'd forgotten long ago what being truly happy looked like. He probably had.

_No, Mr York. I dream of killing you._

He stood at the door of Honolulu Heights and tried, for a second, to imagine Hal really living – existing? – here. The paint on the door was chipped; Nick imagined that grating on the Old One's nerves. Weeds dared to rear their bright green heads in cracks on the pathway, and the ridiculous frilly curtains nearly made him scoff. Lord Harold York, Scourge of Humanity and Holder of the Red Shield, lived_ here_? But to suggest that Nick was wrong would imply that he had _not _seen his creator stumble up to this exact building and stand on the doorstep for a few moments, before entering. And that, in turn, would imply a lack of intelligence on his part.

And Nicholas Andrew Cutler was nothing if not intelligent. A planner. A history maker. Where others blundered into things foolishly, he thought things through. The taxi driver earlier that day, however, had been rather short-sighted of him. But he'd cleared away his mess, hadn't he? Just as his maker had taught him to. That was when he'd seen Hal.

_What do you fear, Nick?_

The once grand Old One had been despairing; barely aware of where he was it seemed. Half in tears, Hal had dragged a body from an alleyway, allowing its – _his_, Nick, _his_ – feet to trail behind him. Setting off at a pace that surprised Nick, Hal had headed for the shockingly tacky building that was Honolulu Heights. It was only around the corner, and Nick had followed in hasty pursuit. Hal hadn't encountered anyone on his way, much to Nick's dismay. He'd have liked to see Hal try and explain exactly why he was dragging an apparently lifeless body towards a house. But, sadly, he'd gotten to Honolulu Heights undisturbed. After arguing with someone at the door, Hal and the human had gone in. And, ever meticulous though he was, Hal had overlooked something in his rush. The door was left ajar.

_Nothing, of course, Mr York._

_Nothing? You fear in the whole wide world?_

Nick had reached the door and stood, listening to the conversation inside. A shiver went up his spine when he heard his creator's voice again, after so long. Of course he had heard it in his nightmares – _Nightmares, Nicholas? Dreams? – _but hearing it then had been terrifying and thrilling at the same time. Like hearing a python hiss right beside your ear.

_I fear nothing, Mr York. You taught me that fear is a weakness._

_Indeed I did, Nick. But there is one thing you should fear, always. You are a fool to have forgotten._

He couldn't help but remembering Hal's voice. Not that cold, calculating, capricious voice he used to threaten Nick. A different, more animalistic voice - the one he used to terrorize him.

_You must fear me. Me and only me. I am your master, Nicholas. Your alpha and omega. Your saviour and your pain. I have smashed you down, only to rebuild you stronger than ever before. _

Nick leant against the doorframe of the house, breathing hard. The occupants were too busy listening to Hal's hypnotic tone to hear him. He was reeling Owen in, Nick knew it. Fooling him. Playing him like a lute. Well, Nick was going to save him.

"Don't believe him."

He pushed the door and it opened with a satisfying creak. Then, it seemed, everything happened at once – he met Hal's terrified and shocked eyes. He saw Owen lying, just centimetres away from Hal's face, on the sofa. He smelt the metallic tang of blood in the air, recently poured.

And he spoke again. No words of grandeur or bravado. No false displays of fear or intimidation. Nothing except the cold, honest words that had been welling up inside Nicks' throat for fifty years. He wasn't afraid of Hal anymore. He had grown up.

When he spoke, he did so with no fan-fare: "Hello Hal."

_You are no longer weak, are you Nick?_

_No, Mr York, I am not. You made me strong._


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fourteen<strong>

"_If God does exist, He doesn't listen to people like you and me. I can help you. Do you want me to help you? Do you want me to make this go away?"  
><em>_**- Mitchell, "Being Human", Series 3 Episode 6**_

**Hal**

He hadn't changed in half a century. Physically, he hadn't aged. He was still too young; still hadn't had time to grow into his face. Hal hadn't granted him the chance. Still, in his attempt to seem casual and menacing, Nick's slightly child-like, impish smile flawed him. Even with smatterings of blood on his shirt, Hal noted, he was having trouble holding in his glee, as a child would.

And he terrified Hal.

A million moments came roaring back at him – days smeared with blood, night empty times, holding his breath while waiting for the clouds of red smog to clear.

"You left me."

Those three words severed his carefully-built life, of dominoes and marigolds and matchsticks, from this new existence. The new existence, raw and untried, was essentially an echo of so many other existences – past evils screaming throughout his life. Who was he to try to run from it? Pretend he could escape it. It was his shadow; it whispered in his every thought; it beat in his empty veins. Nick's reappearance here, where he thought he was safe, was proof of this: It always came back.

"I know." Hal replied.

Nick laughed, harsh and barking, and almost stumbled through the door, frighteningly close to breaking the vampire lore and entering without an invitation. Righting himself and visibly calming down, he said: "That's it? No grand apology? No fake display of emotion? You're not going to even _pretend _to care?" He swept his arm wide, gesturing to Annie and Owen. "But your audience expect a show. They are still under the impression that you're capable of human emotions." He sighed, as if he was disappointed with Hal for not entertaining him.

Hal felt a chill settle over his bones and the hairs on the nape of his neck prickled. _Don't show fear, _he hissed mentally. He couldn't show that he was afraid. He knew from personal experience in Nick's position – high on power and drunk on strength – that fear would only increase the rush. Was that was this feeling was? He was afraid? Of _Cutler?_

But this wasn't the same Cutler he'd abandoned half a century ago, Hal reminded himself. That man – boy, really, – had morals. Feared the unknown eternal blank space that lay before him, splashed with scarlet and scarred with guilt. That boy didn't want to kill anyone.

The vampire before him now was not the same being. He had made the mistake, Hal realised, to assume that a youthful exterior meant a young mind-set. He could see something in Nick's eyes, reverberating through his gaze. An emptiness. A void of –

"Do you remember the reservoir, Mr York?"

Knife-like, his old friend's voice broke his reverie. Hal felt despair rising as he stood there, at some point having gotten to his feet, his newly constructed life was hurtling out of control with the arrival of this one person, and there was nothing he could do about it. All the secrets, the lies, the threats, he'd told Nick would come spilling out. But Nick wouldn't do it quickly. Oh no. That would be too simple, dull even. Hal knew that his old student would want to draw this out, this slow-burning death of Hal's. He'd drink in the looks of horror and disgust on Owen and Annie's faces as each secret was extracted from the past, dragged painfully into the present after gathering dust for the last fifty years.

"Mr York?"

Hal blinked. His vision splintered, broke and, for a second, he was looking at two Nicks, standing side-by-side: one terrified with smoothed-down hair and wide eyes, the other casually leaning against a doorframe and smirking.

"Aren't you listening to me, Mr York?" Both Nick's asked.

Then the Nick with the terrified expression and doe-eyes exploded in a flower of blood, growing from the centre of his torso and spreading across his chest. He was dripping blood from every orifice – it poured from his eyes and ears, nose and mouth. And he blurred as he did so, becoming less and less substantial. Until, at last, he ceased to exist at all.

Hal had killed him.

The other Nick remained. The slick, suave Nicholas of the twenty-first century. He was grinning at Hal, revealing his slightly misshapen teeth and his eyes glittered with malice. One of his legs crossed over the other, and he was supporting his diagonal stance with the threshold. And when he spoke, his voice was simply bursting with sarcasm and triumph.

"The reservoir." Those two words were loaded with meaning, almost as if they should've been accompanied with a friendly wink. Like Hal and he shared a secret. "Remember, Mr York?"

It took Hal about three seconds to realise what Nick was referring to. It took him about two more seconds to realise that he was shaking uncontrollably, tiny spasms of movement that he'd seen countless times in prey. He, Hal, so used to being the hunter, had become the prey. "Yes." He managed to croak out, the word barely passing his lips in a breath.

Turning from Hal to the other two people in the room, Nick flashed a wolfish smile at them. Neither Annie nor Owen had made a move to comfort Hal, who was in obvious distress, but had remained in their positions and not taken their eyes off Nick. Owen flinched a little when Nick's gaze passed over him like a searchlight. Hal watched with a sick kind of fascination as recognition sparked in Nick's eyes when he looked at Owen directly.

"Have we met before?" Nick asked, quietly.

Owen frantically shook his head, wordlessly. Finally he managed to spew out: "No, no. I don't recognise you."

Nick's face was sure to break in half if he smiled anymore. His eyes glittered. "You didn't see me in a certain black taxi, young man? Because I remember you, I think. Weren't you being sick?" He pulled a disapproving face. "Not at all acceptable for a vampire to throw up at the sight of blood." He shrugged, laughing a little. "Ah well. You will learn. I did."

Owen nodded, desperate to escape the vampire's attention.

"So," Nick said, simply. "I'd better tell you about the old reservoir, hadn't I? I know you're both just burning with curiosity."

"Nick." Hal at last found his voice, and took a few stumbling steps forwards. He had to stop this, this madness, this dredging up of the past. He couldn't imagine the looks on Annie and Owen's faces – especially Owen, so new into this world of vampirism – when they heard of the things Hal had done. The reservoir, Hal knew, was just the start. Given the opportunity, Nick would tell them everything. Every nightclub. Every woman. Each kiss. Every time he had ra –

No.

"Nick," he repeated. His throat felt too dry to force the words out but, by contrast, his eyes felt wet. He pushed the words out, knowing that the glass-life he lived now depending on it. "Please. Don't do this." He grappled at his thoughts now, as if they were stars, and tried to connect them into constellations. "We can go for a drink?" He gave a close-mouthed smile. "Get a bite to eat. Or drink. Whatever you want. Catch up." He took a deep breath, willing himself to look Nick in the eyes. Nick was staring at him; shock was clear in his eyes, mingled with anger and… want? Was Nick really willing to hear Hal out?

Hal finished: "For old time's sake."

Something shattered in Nick's eyes, visible only to Hal. He'd seen it before, in many new recruits. Often after their first kill, or sometimes when they witnessed a mauled body for the first time. It was the sight of their fragile humanity, more delicate than anyone could fathom, breaking. Nick had dared believe, for a moment, that he could forgive Hal. They could work something out, perhaps. Put the past behind them. He had let the Nick that Hal had known, the husband to Rachel and student to Hal, too young for the horrors of vampire life, to crawl from the farthest corners of his mind. He had, for only a few minutes, listened to Hal. Reasoned with the insanity that devoured his conscience and slaughtered his humanity. But those words, those four words, had stopped all hopes of a second chance in their tracks. The change in Nick was palpable in the air and visible in his expression.

"For old time's sake?" Nick parroted back, smiling. The fury in his eyes contradicted his grin, burning through his irises. "Allow me to ask, Mr York: Are you referring to the old time's in which you ripped my humanity from me? Or the old time's in which you raped and murdered my wife?"

The gasp from Annie was enough to prompt a laugh from Nick. The laugh would have frozen Hal's blood, if he still had any. It was the laugh of someone who had abandoned all their morals and danced on the brink of sanity, occasionally toeing the line to madness. It was, in fact, a laugh that Hal had allowed to flow from his vocal cords many times over the last five hundred years. But to hear it from Nick, that sound of utter carelessness of order, was awful.

The terrible laughter died slowly, petering out to a few giggles and, finally, silence.

Hal didn't want to turn and see Owen and Annie – their shocked and horrified expressions. He couldn't face the fear and anger in Annie's beautiful eyes. He couldn't bear the sight of Owen, all hope that Hal would protect him from the harshness of vampire life gone from his expression.

"I'm so sorry, Nick." Hal whispered.

"I know you are." Nick replied, his voice hard as stone. "And I will never, ever forgive you."


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fifteen<strong>

"_All those things you've done, they're in your past, right? It's who you are now that counts..."  
>- <em>_**Annie, "Being Human", Series 3 Episode 3**_

**Hal  
><strong>

Most things, even the greatest movements on earth, have their beginnings in something small. An earthquake that shatters a city begins with a tremor. Music begins with a vibration. A flood begins with a trickle of water. A hurricane begins with a gust of wind. And God created the entire universe from a single idea.

Hal's world exploded because of a single question. A question that crawled into the air like a tiny demon, ripping his entire world from then on apart. Five words, as simple as a heartbeat.

The question was: "_Are you ready to die?"_

And his answer, obviously, was: _"No."_

When thinking back to that grainy blink of existence that was his human life, Hal tried on numerous occasions to console himself with his inadequate response. The response that had begun the painting in blood that had lasted five centuries. The answer to the question that had cost countless lives – those he'd left with their hearts beating, but still dead. The constant flitting from good to bad, to good again. But, ever present, was the sheer potential. That was all. The tantalizing opportunity, and one he'd succumbed to on many occasions, to just _let go_.

He didn't remember much from the beginning – burning hours spent in a dark cellar, suffocated by the smog and surrounded by the scent of sweat. He could hear the muffled weeping of other men, but only was certain of their existence by that sound. Nothing penetrated the darkness that engulfed his vision, and he couldn't move aside from to breath harshly, like a trapped animal struggles.

The chains that held him were thick and freezing – an almost welcome contrast to the stifling heat of the room – and seemed to be attached to the ground. Judging by the ringing echo that reverberated when he rattled them as much as he was able, Hal reasoned that the room in which they were trapped was large and spacious. In the pitch darkness that he found himself in, Hal thought that the room could have gone on forever.

None of the inhabitants of his cell attempted to contact each other. Either they were so isolated with their suffering that they decided it was best not to talk to the other prisoners, or they assumed the noises made by the other men were merely shadows of their ravaged minds and dismissed them as illusions. Hal didn't want to break the almost fragile quiet of the atmosphere, so he sat against the wall and remained with his own company.

He had no idea, even centuries later, how long he was in that prison for. There was no window to ascertain the passing of time, no light source at all. The only thing that assured him that time was in fact passing was the clenching pain in his stomach that slowly became an occasional stabbing sensation, lasting for a few seconds every couple of minutes, that momentarily allowed for light – searing, blinding, light – to flash before his vision. These contractions got more frequent until, eventually, Hal could no longer tell if he had blacked out from the hunger or fallen asleep. The agony came in equal doses whether he was awake or asleep. It crawled on the edges of his nightmares. He had forgotten what it was like to dream, and his moments of sleeping were twisted charades of a long-ago conversation with a surgeon:

_You are going to die in this battle. _

_I am aware of that sir. _

_Are you prepared to meet the Lord? _

_No sir. _

Hal didn't think Satan would smile at him, his eyes glittering and his teeth glinting. He didn't think the Devil wondered the battlefields of Dubrovna, picking his victims from the wounded soldiers. He didn't think he would be tempted with eternal life – the most tantalizing gift that can be offered to a foolish child of war.

And he certainly didn't think that he would see Satan twice.

When the pain became such that Hal thought it would never end, chasing him to the ends of his very consciousness and cackling at him, a light appeared. It was so bright that he could have sworn he would be blinded. The light was thrown – how dare it be? Didn't anyone know it was so precious? – across the cell. He only caught a glimpse of a figure, silhouetted against the rectangle of light, before being plunged into the familiar blackness again.

It wasn't the screaming that alerted Hal of the events. The man closest to the door didn't even have time to scream, draw breath, before his blood arced across the room. It was the spray of warm liquid smattering on his face, the stench of metal, which told him what was happening. But, after the first death, the murderer took his time about it. He wanted to draw it out. Let the other men know he was coming. The swell of soft sobs rose and rose, higher and higher, until it became a hysterical whinny of animalistic sound. No longer were these men human – the once great Polish soldiers had been regressed to cattle. Helpless and immobilised, they tried to shout and cry; as if words would ward off their imminent ends. But each voice, eventually, was cut off abruptly. The shouts were replaced with the sound of choking and gulping as they drowned in their own arterial blood.

Throughout all of this, Hal lost himself. He was no longer a man. He was a primal instinct personified. Run. Flee. He could feel every single sinew pumping full of insects, crawling just below his skin, ready to break out. His breath was coming faster than he thought possible. His mind had stopped being coherent, and instead was a disjointed collection of nebulas. Every sound was magnified – each droplet of blood that hit the floor was defined – and every smell was vying for attention: the scent of metallic blood in every breath, the rotting flesh and the mildew damp. Everything was everywhere.

Then nothing.

If he hadn't physically felt the stone floor beneath him, Hal would have sworn that he had ceased to exist. He felt as if he had died a thousand times, felt every single death of the men that surrounded him. Was it possible they were _all_ dead? Was he the last one? Why would _he_ be saved?

"He who wishes to be obeyed must know how to command." A silky voice slipped out of pure darkness, crawling through the metres that separated them and hissing into Hal's ear. "I believe Machiavelli said that."

Hal didn't realise he was shaking uncontrollably until he heard his own teeth hitting against one another. He was going to die. He was going to _die. _"Are you the Devil?" He gasped, his own lungs betraying his mouth, the words coming out in a breath.

The laughter that echoed throughout the chamber was too loud for the enclosed space. It scraped against Hal's eardrums and chewed his brain, the utter wrongness of it clawing at his soul. It went on and on, as if never ending. But it was an empty laugh, Hal realised, deigned to terrorise him.

"Oh, Henry," The disembodied voice finally said, "You flatter me." There was a rush of air from an undetectable place in the void, and suddenly Hal could feel hot air on his cheek. He whimpered as the scent of flesh permeated the air, and tiny droplets of water flicked onto his skin. The murderer's face was close enough now, centimetres away, for Hal to see every blackened vein in his face. He smiled and Hal could see bits of skin stuck between his browned teeth, and fought the urge with every fibre of his being to throw up.

"You are going to kill me." Hal said, his voice devoid of emotion. _The Lord is my shepherd. He maketh me to lie down in His green pastures._

The murderer – the surgeon – looked positively euphoric. "No, Henry." He whispered. "I am going to _destroy_ you."

_Though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death._

"Piece by piece, Henry. You shall be broken down until you are nothing but dust. And then," The pause lasted a heartbeat. "And then. You shall become more than a man, Henry. Oh so much more."

_I am not afraid, for the Lord is with me._

"Blasphemy." Hal hissed, no longer fearing what was going to come, because he knew it was inevitable. "Nobody can claim to be more than a man."

"Except me." The retort came fast, bitingly. "And, in time, you. Deification, you insignificant human. Immortality. Things beyond your current understanding. Time will contract – years will become days – and the lives of others will be as brief as mayflies." The flicker of a smile. "And as meaningless."

When the agony in his shoulder began – the burning, cleansing, fire – everything else faded. All that remained in his entire world was the pinpricks of pain, driving down into his skin and muscles and reaching his bones. Burying their way through his marrow and hitting his very core. Spreading like a cancerous growth, eating his soul and swallowing his humanity. He skin burst with needles of searing silver. His mind was emptied of all coherent thoughts. Except one:

_My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?_


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Sixteen<strong>

"_ They were just two souls, united by fear and solitude. Lost in the dark. Fate pushed them together__…"  
>- <em>_**Annie, "Being Human", Series 1 Episode 6**_

**Hal**

"But." Cutler said with relish, allowing his tongue to click over the 't'. He allowed the silence to draw out like a breath, as the trio waited to see what he was going to say next. "Just because I shan't forgive you, doesn't mean I don't want to spend time with you." He smiled toothily, his eyes gaining a boyish excitement.

"What?" Hal said, feeling stupid and slightly angry. He hated how much power this _child_ – as insane and desperate as he was, Hal still saw Nick as a child – had over him. Nobody had that much power over him. He was Henry York for god's sake! _Nobody, Hal? _A voice hissed in his mind, and he could've sworn that the surgeon was standing right behind him with his lips right beside his ear. _Don't lie to yourself._

Nick rolled his eyes and sighed, as if Hal was being deliberately petulant in his lack of understanding. Hal tried to control his urge to leap over to the door and force Nick through it, and watch as he writhed and burnt on the floor. "How about that drink?" Nick asked, speaking clearly as if to someone younger than him. "You and I."

Hal blinked and almost reeled in shock. He realised, in two seconds, that there must've been a plan behind this invitation. Nick couldn't have had a change of heart in the last minute, could he? Hal had no idea how his ravaged mind was working, perhaps he had. But he remembered all too well how little _he'd_ cared about anything when he was in the bad part of his cycle. How he'd spoken to everyone as though they were only there because he allowed them to be. Maybe Nick just didn't care about inviting Hal; there was no hidden agenda. Just the tatters of Nick's mind piecing together words coherently, and not thinking of their consequences. And Hal also remembered how he'd reacted when people refused him. Would Nick get furious again, if Hal refused? He didn't want to chance it, so fragile was the situation.

"Alright." He replied, taking a step towards Nick and not turning around to face Annie or Owen. "I'll be back shortly." He addressed them, keeping his eyes steadily on Nick. "Annie, get Owen some blood. See to it that he can walk accordingly." He didn't even allow himself to consider their situation – having been once married – or the fact that Owen had murdered her. He had no time to worry for their petty issues.

He stopped at the doorframe, merely centimetres away from Nick, but it could've been miles. When he stepped from the safety of the house, he knew he was exposed to anything Nick wanted to do to him. Hal would've been sure, fifty years ago, that he could have beaten Nick in a physical fight. But now? He wasn't so sure. Half a century in isolation had made him weaker, and Nick was clawing at the edges of sanity. However, the possibility that Nick would reveal more secrets – worse ones, oh, so much worse – was too tangible. Hal knew he had no choice. As much as he hated the hold Nick currently had over him, he couldn't deny its existence.

And he stepped over the threshold, taking a deep breath as he did so. But all Nick did was step backwards, out of his way, and smile knowingly. Almost as if he'd heard Hal's inner turmoil. He probably worked out why Hal had hesitated, hence the ghost of triumph that lingered in his eyes.

"Shall we walk, my Lord?" Nick asked, his tone painfully mocking, and he held the crook of his arm out for Hal to take.

Hal froze, every muscle in his body locking and his breath coming to a basic halt. The use of those two words: _My Lord._ Why had he said that? Why would he –

"Oh for God's sake." Nick snapped, "I was _joking, _alright? I know you prefer to be addressed as Mr York. Isn't that right?"

"Hal, actually." He replied, softly. "And I'm afraid I don't always understand modern humour."

Nick sighed and lowered his arm, staring ahead moodily. They assumed a silent march, side-by-side, each lost in their own thoughts. Hal had no idea where they were going, and didn't dare ask. He could feel Nick's aura pouring off him, staining the air with fury and the slightest hint of excitement. Was that possible, Hal wondered, or was his empathy off kilter? Could Nick really, under his madness, _want_ to spend time with him? Gain his approval, even after all this time?

They reached an uninspiring building a few roads away, after walking in painful silence for what felt like too long. The walls were probably once white, but had since faded to dull grey and peeled slightly. A chalk board standing outside announced that _under 5's ate free_. The dilapidation of the building in what, Hal assumed, must've been under 30 years, suddenly made him feel very old and very tired. He should've been like that building, centuries ago. He should have crumbled and faded to bones and been buried under the reign of King Henry VIII. He should have been a source of historical information. Perhaps historians would have puzzled over his bones – where had he come from? What had his diet been? His job? He belonged in a museum, or miles underground.

Clearing his head of the cobwebs of thought, he followed Nick through the door and took a seat next to him at the bar. The stench of alcohol and testosterone filled his senses, immediately dulling them with their familiarity. Bars had _always_ smelt like that. Even five hundred years ago. That monotonous smell of crushed dreams, the sight of men drowning their sorrows in beer glasses, the sounds of drunken promises and weeping. Although now accompanied, occasionally, with the sound of a ringing phone or beeping text message, the archetypical sounds remained. For some reason, he found this very funny and started gave a small sound of amusement, barely a noise in his throat, and the flash of a smile.

"What's so funny?" Nick asked, waving the bar man over.

"In all the centuries," Hal replied, allowing some of his ancientness to slip into his tone, "Bars have never changed. Not in my five centuries. The brothel in which I was born was a mirror image of this building. Places like this existed before even me. They outlive me."

Nick shrugged, apparently indifferent to Hal's nostalgia, and ordered them their drinks. He sat staring at the mirror opposite them behind the bar, hoping that nobody would notice their lack of reflections, and tapped the counter rhythmically. He seemed content with their strained silence, but Hal had to break it.

"What do you want, Nick?" He asked in a weary voice. Suddenly, he felt every one of his five hundred years. "Why are you here?"

"I spotted you," Nick said, not meeting Hal's gaze. He interlocked his fingers and stared at them as he continued. "I wanted to see you. I…"

"Missed me?" Hal mentally kicked himself at the silky, predatory tone in his voice that he couldn't prevent, despite knowing that it was dangerous. He just reacted to Nick, like a chemical, in a negative way. He regressed back fifty years in a second. The primal need to be stronger, deadlier, more threatening, rose up inside him.

Nick looked up at that, sharply, and a warning look flashed in his eyes. "No, Mr York." He said, "I did not _miss you_. I was merely curious about how your life was going now, and why you were dragging a comatose human with you." He stared at Hal, allowing the anger he held barely in check to show through for a second. "Never make the mistake, Mr York," he said, "that I feel – or have ever felt – anything but contempt for you. You stole _everything_ from me. In my naivety, I wanted your approval. But now…" He let his voice trail off, leaving the sentence hanging.

Hal opened his mouth to retort, not sure what he was going to say. He wanted to apologize, at least try to make amends. He knew it was pointless – Nick was too far gone to be reasoned with. He wanted to explain why he had done what he'd done, but he couldn't. He didn't even know why he'd done it. Those times were blurs of unnecessary murder and bloodshed. Henry York did what he did because nothing had consequence, and everything was merely a game to him. Nothing mattered. How could he articulate that to Nick without angering him?

Suddenly a flicker of grey caught the corner of Hal's eye, and he spun around. Annie was standing beside them, invisible to everyone but the two vampires. Her hair was dishevelled and her expression was wild. Her eyes swivelled around the bar, alighting on every customer and dismissing them when she saw they weren't who she was looking for.

"Annie!" Hal whispered, so as not to attract the attention of the other bar-goers. She spun her gaze to him and breathed a quick gasp of relief.

"Oh thank God, Hal, thank God I found you." She sobbed, looking as if she was about to collapse. "It's Owen." She tried to control her breathing, before finally blurting out: "It's Owen. He's gone."


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seventeen<strong>

"_There's the natural ebb and flow of personality, then there's being mad as a gibbon…"  
>– <em>_**Herrick, "Being Human", Series 3 Episode 8**_

**Owen**

Doctor Manfred Manquer debated pouring another glass of gin, and pondered on the clients he had tomorrow: a schizophrenic, a manic depressive, and a teenager with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Sighing and cutting his losses in one quick second, he poured the amber liquid and watched it swish for a second, before setting it onto the table.

Standing up and wandering over to the window, Manquer meditatively looked out of the wide window onto the darkening street several miles below. He knew he should be at least slightly grateful that he'd gained such a high position, both in the career and literal aspects of his job. There wasn't, he thought, a single person in the whole of the building who didn't respect him. Only the most difficult cases were sent to him – those lost souls who other psychiatrists had given up on. However, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of self-pity. It was depressing to listen to these people every day. Their minds were so fragile, like butterflies that happened to be trapped inside skulls, and their problems seemed unending. Some things, Manquer had learnt, could not be solved with pills and talking. Some scars were too deep. Some people too disturbed.

Walking back to his desk, Manquer sat on the plush emerald chair and sipped his drink slowly. Allowing the fiery liquid to burn down his throat, he huskily breathed out and laid his head back onto the seat, closing his eyes. Nothing couldn't be solved with a good stiff drink.

Of course, he tried to rejuvenate himself, a lot of his cases that had succeeded. The most recent of which had been a young man (_oh goodness, what was his name?_) who had been a right package. Hallucinating – wild accusations of werewolves and vampires. Claiming to have murdered his girlfriend – the police had ruled out the girl in question's death as a tragic accident. The poor young man had been suicidal on several occasions.

Thinking back to the last time the client had been in his office, Manquer couldn't shake the feeling of unease. There was something broken inside that client, something that medical science and psychiatric know-how was beyond helping. It shone through his eyes sometimes. The client – _what was his name? – _had been pacing like a caged animal. It fascinated Manquer, the way people became so primal when they were locked up. So animalistic. Of course, though, that was why they were there. But, he couldn't help but wonder, were they locked up because they were animals? Or were they animals because they were locked up?

"They're letting me out next week you know, doc."

"I know, Owen." (_That had been his name!_ Manquer thought, triumphantly.) "How do you feel about that?"

"Good." He continued to pace. Left, right, left, right. It made Manquer dizzy to watch.

"Is that all? Good?" Manquer pressed, not taking his eyes off the client. "Are you scared? Being out in the big wide world where nobody can protect you?"

Owen stopped suddenly, in the middle of the floor, and fixed his doctor with a hard stare. There was nothing behind his gaze this time. Only cold emptiness. An endless tunnel into his blank mind. "I am not afraid doc." He said. "There's nothing to be scared of. No vampires. No werewolves. And Annie is gone. You told me so yourself."

Was Manquer imagining it, or was there an almost threatening tone in Owen's voice? As if, if he'd been lied to, he'd lash out. No, the doctor scolded himself. He was being paranoid. The Board had deemed it acceptable for Owen to be released, and even Manquer couldn't argue with his bosses.

He nodded at Owen and smiled in what he prayed was a reassuring way. "You're right, of course. Nothing to be scared of at all. No monsters. No secrets." His curiosity got the better of him and he dared to ask: "Owen? Seeing as you're leaving, you don't need to bother keeping that silly old secret anymore, do you? The secret that only the dead know?" He let the question sink into his client's mind for a second, before finishing: "What was it?"

Footsteps from the hallway snapped Manquer from his reverie, and his eyes flickered open. Who was here this late? As far as he knew, he was the only person who willingly stayed after hours. But it was ages before the cleaners were due, wasn't it? Checking the large gilded clock on the wall, he confirmed that was only just turning 9:00. Perhaps it had been a sound from outside? Before he had a chance to get up and check the road, the door to his office flew open.

For a moment Manquer wondered if his memories had somehow conjured Owen up in front of him. Mentally cursing himself, he dismissed that idea in an instant. At a total loss, he just stared at his old client in silence, waiting for him to enter the room.

"You can come in, you know." He supplied, finally. Owen smiled and took a slow and deliberate step into the room.

"Thank you," came the reply. "There are certain rules for corporate buildings with rooms owned by specific people." He said this in a light, breezy, tone. The same one, Manquer realised chillingly, he'd used when he'd first come under his charge:

_Do you still dream of killing animals, Owen?_

_No, doc. I dream of killing you._

"Rules?" Manquer asked, weakly. For some unknown reason, he felt a rush of fear accompany Owen's sudden arrival. Like he shouldn't be standing there calmly, but running as far away as possible. He gripped the desk with one hand, trying to seem as in control as he could.

"Oh yes." Owen took a few steps towards his old doctor and studied his nails, seeming totally at ease. There was a mocking tone in his voice, as if he talking to a child. "I'm still new to all of this, but I felt an aura – shield-like, in fact – that seemed to prevent me from your office without literal invitation. Rather irritating, I know." He flashed a smile. "But I have all the time in the world to get used to it."

Manquer nodded mutely, too unexplainably afraid to even question him. The sense of danger that poured off Owen was unmistakable. He'd seen a bear once, in Canada, standing only a few metres away. It hadn't seen him, and eventually lumbered off. But that atmosphere had still been there. The sense that one was a hunter and one was its prey. The creature had simply oozed threat, wildness and strength. That same feeling was coming from Owen now. Manquer was used to dealing with clients who _thought_ they were dangerous, however were really as harmless as flies, and just as confused. But Owen was different – the threat seemed direct and heartless. He seemed so sure of the effect he was creating. And revelled in it.

"Do you know something, doctor?" Owen said in that same terrifyingly pleasant tone. "You lied to me."

The word would barely leave his throat: "Oh?"

"Yes. Monsters _are_ real. But you know that now, don't you?" He gave Manquer a pitying smile, almost apologetic. "Of course you do, you foolish human. You sense it in me, don't you?" He paused for a second, and Manquer seemed only to blink – it only took the fraction of a breath – and Owen was in front of him, centimetres from his face.

Manquer collapsed into his chair and Owen towered over him, grinning that devilish smile of his. Looking up at his old charge, the doctor felt his stomach drop a million miles and every single coherent though flew from his head. It wasn't possible. And yet it was happening, right in front of his eyes. He couldn't deny what he was seeing. The black eyes. The sharp fangs.

A vampire.

Owen leant closer to his doctor, right next to ear, and breathed out slowly. "I love that." He whispered, causing Manquer to shiver. "You smell of fear." He gave a freezing laugh. "God, I'm going to fucking _love_ this life." He crowed. "You are going to die now, you know. But first," he paused. "Do you want to know a secret?"

The tears had begun silently, at some unknown point, and Manquer couldn't even speak to protest as the secret he'd been wanting to know was given to him. The secret that only the dead knew.

And then, when the agony descended, it was a relief.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eighteen<strong>

"_You're going? Again? You're kidding me…"  
>– <em>_**Cutler, "Being Human", Series 4 Episode 7**_

**Cutler**

Hal's reaction was instantaneous. He leapt from the stool and stared at Annie, fear rising in his eyes. "What happened? Did you leave him?" The questions were spoken hurriedly, as if every word couldn't leave his mouth quick enough. Not even turning to look at Nick, he started towards the door.

Annie stayed where she was, stricken, and stared at Hal. Nick felt a faraway emotion that might have resembled amusement at how obviously she was trying to remind Hal of his protégée's presence. Her eyes were screaming at him. Although, Nick vaguely thought, eyes didn't make sounds. Did they? He didn't know. Didn't remember. All that he was focussed on was Hal leaving. Again. _You marooned me. In a different world._

"Annie?" Hal snapped, stopping on his storm to the exit and staring at her with just a hint of bewilderment in his eyes, clouded mostly by irritation. Why wasn't she coming with him?

"Forgetting something?"

Nick's voice was emotionless. Almost as if, Hal thought, he expected this. He _knew_ that his creator would abandon him in favour of Owen. He was almost waiting, since learning of Owen's existence,for it to happen. Then why did it hurt so much? As much as the first time, half a century ago. Nick was the thorn in Hal's side – the reminder of the past he'd let go of, the mistakes he'd made, the lives he'd ruined – but Hal was the sword in _his_ side. The stabbing ache that he was _still _not wanted. Even after all the time apart, the years spent thinking his creator was dead, the murders he'd committed in Hal's name, he was still nothing. There was always something that came first to Hal, before Nick: fifty years ago it had been the need to be detoxed; now it was Owen. Owen.

Nick kept his eyes trained on Hal as he turned slowly back around to face him. The look on his creator's face was priceless – anger that was being terribly hidden with a smile. But it just made Hal look like he wanted to eat him. It was a smile, in fact, that Nick had seen on the few occasions Hal had taken him hunting: _Trust me,_ the smile said, _I care you about you._ It was false that Nick felt almost insulted that Hal thought it would actually work on him.

"Aren't you coming, Nick?" Hal asked, his tone sickly sugar sweet. Like it was Nick who was at fault for not following in suite. "You know," he continued – how _dare _he? – "to find Owen?"

Crushing that tiny part of his mind that was actually considering standing up and going after Hal, as obedient as a child, Nick flashed a cold smile at Annie. "I apologize, Annie." He said. "For Mr York's behaviour. He appears to genuinely believe that I will willingly go with you. As if I give a fuck where Owen is." He spat the words out now, barely containing his fury. Other bar-goers started to turn, mildly concerned by his anger. "Like I actually want to hunt for his newest victim." All the while he kept his eyes on Annie, not daring to see what Hal was doing. "Because that's what they are, you know. Victims. His little _mayflies_ – he sees all of his creations as experiments, like a twisted Frankenstein, and drops us when we fail. I wasn't willing to kill, so he left me. Isn't that right, Mr York?" It was a rhetorical question, and Nick didn't pause to see if Hal answered. "But not, I must add, until he slaughtered my wife and laughed as I drank her blood."

"That's not true!" Hal cried, still trying to hide his past from Annie.

"Isn't it?" Nick hissed, standing up and walking the few steps towards his maker. He stared at him for a few seconds, before grabbing the front of his jacket and hauling him roughly towards his face, until there as only inches between them. Someone told him to _take it easy._ He ignored them and whispered: "Then, pray tell, _Mr York. _What is the truth? I'm just _dying_ to know."

"I didn't kill her." Hal was apparently also unaware, or unaffected by, the fact that the bar had gone quiet to hear their confrontation. "Fergus did."

The change in Nick was painful to observe. All that false bravado – that built-up indifference and wall of coldness – vanished in a second. He regressed half a century in the blink of eye and his shoulders lowered. He was no longer Nicholas of the twenty-first century, having his own life without Hal and using mobiles and being a planner. He was Nick again, the naive young lawyer who was afraid of the infinite life that lay ahead of him. The fragile confidence he had carefully constructed in Hal's absence was shattered. His eyes were glittering with unshed tears and his lips tightened with the effort of holding the immense sorrow inside.

Eventually he managed to gasp out: "You let my wife be touched by that… that _animal?"_ He sounded more confused than anything; betrayed.

Hal couldn't think of an adequate reply and only nodded. How on earth could he apologize for that? It was better, he reasoned, to stay silent and allow Nick to get it out of his system. But the second question came, harsher than the first. There was no confusion or betrayal in his voice now, only emptiness. "Did he rape her?"

"This is hardly–" Hal began.

"Answer the fucking question!" Nick shouted, the veins in his neck suddenly bulging. He wasn't looking at Annie, seemed totally unaware that everyone was watching their exchange. Or rather, it didn't matter. All that mattered was Rachel, and the fact that everything he'd thought about her death was possibly wrong. Admittedly, Rachel was more a symbol now than anything else – a symbol of all he'd left behind. He barely remembered her face, it was only a blur and the photographs had been long-since lost, and he only heard her voice in his dreams. She was a face to put to his humanity, a picture he could associate with the time he severed ties with his mortality. He didn't even know where she was buried. But still, some remnant part of his mind cared what had happened to her. He _had_ felt something for her once, hadn't he? They'd been married for God's sake.

And the thought that _Fergus_ had killed her. At least, over the years, Nick had become accustomed to the idea that Hal had given her a clean death, quick and as painless as possible. He was bound by his own obsessive compulsive tendencies to try and make as little mess as possible when killing, so Nick had assured himself that Rachel's death had been fast. Perhaps Hal had comforted her as she died, as he sometimes did? He'd surely imagined the scene many times. But now. Fergus.

The silence had exceeded awkwardness, giving Nick his answer. But he had to _hear _it. He had to hear the words come from Hal's mouth, in some masochistic way. "Did he?" He pressed, his voice dangerously quiet now.

"Yes." Hal whispered, thinking that, if he said it quieter, it would impact less. As if the soft tone in his voice made the news less horrific and earth-shattering.

Nick stumbled back, leaning against the bar for support. "Oh God," he breathed. "I'm going to be sick."

He felt a hand on his shoulder; a gentle and reassuring feeling in the isolation. The hand was cold, barely physically really, and Nick could smell the attic-y smell of a ghost. He looked up and saw Annie. Her face was writ with compassion and sorrow, and she had her hand on him. It was such an intimate gesture, one that countless girls had done to him, but there was something different behind it. _Caring, _he realised. Annie cared about him. No more than a stranger cares when someone hears devastating news. He didn't make the mistake of assuming that. But she still worried for him.

Taking a slow and shaky step towards Hal, and shaking Annie's hand off carelessly, Nick controlled his breathing. He knew they had to leave now, before the humans reacted to their argument, and somehow that thought allowed him to put one foot in front of the other and walk out of the door, right past his maker and into the street.

Once outside, Nick walked the few more steps required to reach the wall of the pub and leant against the wall. Allowing for his legs to give way beneath him, he slipped down the wall and onto the floor. He didn't care about Owen. He didn't give a thought to what Hal would do when he saw him. He didn't care _who_ saw him. He didn't want to ever move again. All he wanted – all he _had_ – to do was cry.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nineteen<strong>

"_I can see their faces. Not just the people I've killed, but the people I'm going to kill…"  
>– <em>_**Mitchell, "Being Human", Series 3 Episode 8**_

**Owen**

Resting his feet on the large oak desk and tipping the chair back as far as it could go, Owen took another sip of the good doctor's gin and smacked his lips, smiling and observing the office. What had once been a meticulously clean place – an almost calming place, deigned to make patients relax – was now an exhibition in gore. Owen hadn't known that body's contained _that_ much blood, but had been delighted to discover it. The scarlet smiley face he'd daubed on the wall grinned at him, and the cobwebs of blood that had somehow got on the ceiling – he didn't remember doing that, but it looked rather artistic – had caused the artificial light to fall across the room in patches, obscured by the bloodstains.

"I want to thank you again, Manfred, for allowing me to make good use of you." Owen said to the man – caricature of a man, really, now – who lay sprawled on the floor beside the window. He'd tried to crawl there in the hope of jumping out; knowing he'd die but rather he died that way than with Owen. Owen had gained some amusement in watching him struggle across the carpet, about an inch a minute, before reaching out and dragging him backwards a few centimetres by the ankle, making the journey last twice as long. Eventually, to Owen's dismay, he'd died from blood-loss and – perhaps – sheer will. Was it possible for someone to want to end their life so much that their heart just complied and stopped beating?

Reaching to his own chest with his hand, he felt the reassuring nonexistence there. No heartbeat which, despite what medical science said, he knew to be a good thing. His chest was as still and silent as the grave which he would never know.

Sighing a little, Owen felt boredom threatening to overcome him. He'd drunk his fill and there wasn't really anything to do in the office now. Vaguely, he wondered where Hal was. After what that other vampire – didn't Hal call him Nick? – had said about him, Owen figured that Hal would enjoy something like this. Perhaps he should go looking for him?

Standing up and heedlessly knocking the crystal glass onto the floor, Owen stretched until the bones in his arms clicked and let out a groan of pleasure. Walking over to Manquer's corpse he looked down at it, in almost disgust. How _human,_ he thought, to be dead. Annie – with her blood pooling beneath her head – had been dead. His mother – her neck perfect aside from the line of red he'd drawn across it – had been dead. And now the doctor – a ravaged mess of muscle and sinew – was dead too. Pathetic, he concluded. Only stupid people died.

After giving the doctor a sharp kick in the lifeless ribs, he turned and swaggered towards the door. Stopping at the threshold and taking a single glance back, he felt a pang of some alien emotion. He remembered every session he'd had there, drawing pictures of Annie and writing down their best memories together. Recalling why and when he'd asked her to marry him. Whispering his secrets out to the walls, as if Manquer wasn't really there.

All gone now. Everything that had made him human had been left behind, and covered over by blood. No point getting sentimental now, Owen, he chastised himself. He couldn't look back anymore, only forwards. Towards the bloody and beautiful future. He'd find Hal and they could go somewhere together. Scotland? He could kill people in Scotland. Ireland? Why not. Maybe America. He'd always wanted to see the Big City. Grinning at the thought of the long life that ahead of him, he forgot whatever had been plaguing him a few seconds prior and turned his back on the office without a second thought.

Strolling down the corridor, he didn't stop for anything. Not for the nurse, smiling pleasantly at him, assuming he was an early client of Doctor Manquer's. Not the other patients, their minds savaged by insanity and their eyes wide. Owen pitied them now, despite barely feeling a kinship for their condition, and had no recollection of knowing what it was like to mad. He didn't stop for the doorman, who frowned at him in confusion. He kept walking on and out into the street.

Stopping suddenly, looking left and then right, he pondered his next move. Should he go and find Hal? Hal could come with him on his travels. Nick? Nick had seemed like a good sort of guy, Owen thought, and the kind who'd readily join him on a massacre. Annie? She'd been pretty. The world was so wide, he was just realising that now, and there were so many places to go. So many possibilities. So many tasty morsels. Where to next?


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty<strong>

"_Must be lovely being you. Always the cleverest and the oldest and never forget anything for hundreds of years."  
>– <em>_**Annie, "Being Human", Series 4 Episode 4**_

**Hal**

_You want me to kill her, my Lord?_

_Yes, Fergus. You may have your way with her, as detestable as the deeds you may wish to commit might be. Just be sure to be thorough._

_My Lord?_

_By this I mean you must make the incision in her coronary artery large enough for the straw to fit. We can't have her blood being haphazardly spilt and wasted, when it is so necessary to our operation._

_Of course._

The words rang clearly in Hal's mind, filling his thoughts with an uncomfortably familiar sense of power mingled with carelessness. He could suddenly feel a kinship he occasionally recalled with his other side – his alter-ego, as it were – again. The sense that, in some twisted way, he understood his prior motives. And, worse still, he could feel the echo of amusement that accompanied the memories. The urge to laugh, even smile, overwhelmed him and he looked away from Nick quickly.

The man in question was a wreck, reminiscent of many tormented souls that Hal had seen over the centuries. His knees were drawn up to his chest and his arms hung limply beside him, trailing his hands on the floor. He was staring ahead blankly with eyes unseeing. The tears had all but ended and now all that remained was an unending sorrow. Hal had seen this countless times and he knew that Nick was unreachable and inconsolable. Something that parodied pity whispered in his emotions, along with more cobwebs of the past.

_Is it done, Fergus?_

_Yes, my Lord, to your satisfaction. And more, I dare say._

_Oh? Dare I ask what you mean by that statement?_

Blinking and crouching before Nick, Hal dared to look right into his eyes. Knowing that this situation could now swing either way, he decided to chance it: Nick could lash out at him in his blinding fury, or completely disregard him. Personally, Hal preferred the latter because at least then he knew Nick was too far gone to be a threat currently, and he could assume him search for Owen. However, a minute part of his mind thirsted a fight with Nick. Whereas before Hal had been unsure of success against his old student, he was now certain that he'd beat him for, in his distress, Nick would be clumsy. An old, primal, part of his mind crawled back into existence: the need to hurt someone. Cutler would do, the blood-hungry voice hissed.

Shaking himself mentally for his unavoidable predatory habits, Hal realised that he'd been looking at Nick now for a good few seconds and receiving no response. He wasn't going to be a threat, Hal concluded with relief and slight disappointment. They could now leave him there, lost in his sadness, and hunt for Owen.

_I took advantage of Mrs Cutler's more… feminine charms, my Lord._

_Ah. I see. Was she willing?_

Standing at mentally scanning his vast knowledge of the general geography of the area, having visited Wales many times over the years, Hal began to offer himself options as to where Owen was and rejecting them on the ground that they were too cliché or – he regretted thinking this – there wasn't enough prey for him there. Drawing on his understanding of newly-turned vampires, Hal understood that Annie would probably have assumed that Owen was safe to leave for only a few minutes, probably to make him a cup of tea, and returned to find him gone. The blood-lust would have overcome him, Hal knew, and he cursed himself for abandoning his protégée so early in his new life. Owen had murdered Annie, he recalled, and he had been a fool to not consider this as a dangerous factor. He was more susceptible to killing. With that screaming urge to slaughter shredding at his thoughts, Owen was sure to have bowed to it.

_No, my Lord, she was not._

_Of course not. I wouldn't put it down to Nick to have married a whore. But, I gather, this was not a problem for you?_

_It didn't pose as much of an issue, no._

Flicking a single hand in Annie's direction, Hal began to march down the street to begin their search. Deep in his thoughts, he asked her:

"Has Owen ever stayed in one place for a long amount of time? Perhaps somewhere he didn't have pleasant experiences? An orphanage? A school?"

Hurrying to keep up with him, Annie darted a look back to Nick before answering: "We – he went into psychiatric care for three years. St Michael's Hospital."

Hal nodded and veered down a side-street, heading for the direction of said hospital. He remembered, through veils of smog and coal-smoke, the building of that hospital. It was a grand construction, he remembered, under Queen Victoria. A house for the clinically unstable, a place to hide unwanted family members and throw away the scum of the country. A hideous grey building that Hal had only seen in passing and never dared to enter. The place reeked of loss and dismay – the crushing of dreams and entrapment of hopes – and reminded him too vividly of how many hospitals he'd roamed. How vulnerable patients were, especially insane ones, and how compliant the night-guards were to the nice gentlemen asking for entry into certain wards. The smell of those disgusting chemicals that had been used for the last century mixing with the scent of blood.

_And where is Mrs Cutler now?_

_The basement of the Golden Arms, as you requested. _

_Excellent. Take me to her._

Reaching the entrance of the hospital, the grim black double doors gaping down menacingly at them, Hal sniffed. The smell of blood still hung in the air and he could detect from it which direction Owen had headed. Without a word to Annie, his eyes flickered to the penthouse window, where the smell was coming from. He could see, with the aid of his hawk-like vision, the blood smattering the ceiling.

"Annie," He said, very quietly. "Owen has been here." Taking a few deep breaths to calm his racing thoughts, he continued: "I can track him now, fortunately. His… activities… have left a trace and that allows for me to know where he is going."

_Leave us now please. You may not enter until I leave, is that understood?_

_Yes, my Lord._

"Then come on," She almost shrieked at him. Good thing she hadn't, Hal pondered. He was very on the edge as of late. "Where is he?"

_And Fergus?_

_Yes my Lord?_

It took him a few seconds to stop himself from doing one of two things: shouting at Annie for daring to take that demanding tone with him, or running up to the blood-strewn room, forcing a human to allow him access, and seeing what blood he could salvage.

_Anything you may hear, any sounds, coming from this room whence you leave – _

_Are strictly confidential. I understand._

_Good. Now go._

Allowing a few moments for the mental trail of red smoke to form in his mind, like a winding pathway, Hal turned in the direction that Owen had gone and began a brisk walk. He didn't let himself consider what would happen when he found Owen – probably in the midst of a kill. He didn't allow himself to consider the tantalizing possibility of joining him.

Heading the way Owen had done merely hours before, Hal didn't even look around to see if Annie was following him. He was going to find his creation, come what may.


	21. Chapter Twenty One

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty One<strong>

"_You know the Old Ones; they kill at will…__"  
>– <em>_**Herrick**__**"Being Human", Series 3 Episode 7 **_

**Cutler**

In 1960, Nick threw his wedding ring into the Thames and watched as it flashed silver against the dark water and sank from sight.

In 1974 he began to forget her face, and she became a vague smudge in his memory.

In 1989 he momentarily forgot her name.

And not once did he visit her grave. That distant block of marble that stood in some far off cemetery somewhere – _The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want, He made me to lie down in green pastures – _emblazoned with her name in gauzy gold text, and the relevant dates. He couldn't help but wonder how many people cared. Who walked past her, visiting a late relative or friend, and thought about her? Who had she been? Was there anyone left alive to care about her? If only they knew.

In his myopic view of the world prior to his immortality, Nick had thought he loved her. He could never safely say if he _had_, or if he'd merely married her to adhere to society's view that a man was not truly a man until he had a wife to string along. Perhaps, he considered, the emotions had come later. He was sure she'd been beautiful at some point, however when he recalled her all he could see was her lying on that table, her neck savaged and the long red straw bridging between the flesh and the jar.

There had been flashes of other moments, as was wont of the vampiric life, with Rachel. Her eyes alighting when he revealed a ring to her, hidden in a velvet box. Her jingling laughter, so carefree and light, flying up and up. Her smile when he tried to articulate the feelings he thought felt. Because he didn't, not once, love her. She was a means to an end, surely – a beautiful object to drag along to social occasions, to be seen and not heard.

If this was true, his lack of feelings for the woman he'd once called the love of his life, then why had he collapsed when he'd seen her on the table? Was it just because of the shock of it; the brutality? Or was it because he felt a flicker of sadness? He couldn't really recall. However, if he didn't love her, why was he here?

Where was he? For the first time in what felt an age, he blinked and actually took note of his surroundings. At some point he'd fallen to the floor – the grimy and grey concrete – and drawn his knees to his chest. The world had taken on the surreal sepia tone that it did in the awkward period between evening and night. He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there, and when exactly he'd gotten there. Where was Hal? His mind dredged up a distant offering – the large brown eyes staring into his and words too: _Has Owen ever stayed in one place for a long amount of time?_ Owen. Again.

Of course. Fucking Owen ruining _everything_. In the complex tangle of emotions that Nick felt for Hal – hatred and pity and respect – there was, as ever, the need to please. He just wanted to prove to Hal that he'd made the right decision when he'd chosen Nick for immortality. In some unexplainable way, he wanted to make him proud. Be the history maker that Hal had told him he'd be.

The hatred for Owen which Nick felt could only be comparable to the hatred he held, seated in his silent heart, for Fergus. Even when he'd first been recruited, in those chaotic few months, Fergus had flitted about – in and out Hal's radar – and constantly reminded Nick of how young he was. Fergus, of course, had accompanied Hal on the killing spree of the 19th century across Europe, giving Hal his fame as a ruthless slaughterer. He'd been Hal's first recruit and, as a result, saw all of the other vampires Hal had turned as useless. _Mr York's requested your presence in the Golden Arms, Nick. What for? How should I bloody know?_ It had been Fergus who'd summoned him to that bar, where Dennis and Louis and Hal waited. It had been Fergus who, with only the ghost of a smile in his face, had been endowed with the job of moving Rachel literally _around_ Nick. He handled her, if memory served, with upmost care. Of course he did, Nick thought sickly, he'd lain with her. Just as Hal had said.

Standing up slowly, arthritically, Nick took a step forward. He had no idea where he was going. To find Hal? He rejected this idea immediately, disgusted. Hal didn't want him; he wanted to find Owen. Where was he to go? He momentarily considered returning to Stoker Imports again – where he'd originally been headed before he'd seen Hal – but rejected that thought with distaste too. The vision of all those newly-recruited morons, awaiting his instruction, made him feel nauseous. He could go back to Honolulu Heights? And what then? He didn't feel the drive to tell Annie and Tom Hal's secrets anymore. What was the point? He was sure to ruin himself eventually, give into the bloodlust. The effort of hunting Owen proved too much for him at that given time. He could always –

The feeling of sharp nails lightly burying themselves into his neck was only mildly surprising. He'd felt the change in atmosphere a few minutes ago, and been waiting to see what would happen. Hot breath was coming fast, in and out, onto his ear. The perpetrator was obviously trying to control the thrill, Nick thought with slight amusement. Listening for a second, he knew whoever had him by the neck was a vampire by the lack of heartbeat.

"I should kill you where you stand." The voice rang with an odd familiarity that Nick couldn't place, but it had the undertone of something else. It was gravelly and rich, as if the speaker couldn't decide if he wanted to be threatening or coldly polite. He tried to think where he'd heard the voice before, and all he could come up with was a much quieter, terrified, voice. _No, no, I don't recognise you._ Ah; of course.

"Hello Owen." Nick said, calmly. "How are you?"

"Don't play smart with me, you freak." Owen hissed, spinning Nick around in a swift movement and slamming him against the wall. He leant up against him, breathing onto his face the stench of rotting flesh and congealing blood. His eyes were wide and lit with a kind of insanity that Nick had never seen before – a wild disregard for every law mankind had ever known; Owen would try to fly if he wanted to. "I should kill you."

"Yes," Nick replied, trying to keep his cool. He found his position only slightly worrying; he'd been in worse. "You've already said." Pausing to consider, he asked: "You've killed someone already, I assume, by that lovely scent on you."

Owen smiled emotionlessly. Only his eyes glowed with pride and glory. "Yes," he replied. "_Doctor _Manfred Maquer. He and I had some fun together."

"Fun on your part, I guess."

Owen's gaze darted back to Nick and he released his grip on his neck, lowering his forearm instead across his chest to prevent him from moving. They looked at each for a few seconds, neither wanting to be the first to break the stare.

Eventually Nick couldn't help but ask, "What are you doing, Owen?" His question was awfully reminiscent of Hal's, earlier that day, to him. _What do you want, Nick?_ But still, he wanted to understand this new recruit's motives. He knew that Owen would be on edge and possibly half-coherently forming his thoughts, and he remembered that this man was a murderer already, before he'd been made a vampire.

The answer that Owen gave was sharp and short: "I want to kill Hal, of course." His voice was patronizing, as if he was explaining that it was light in day and dark at night. "He's a freakish vampire. A monster. And he needs to be stopped."

_Ri-ight._ "How much do you remember about the past forty eight hours, Owen?" Nick chanced, his voice carrying a soft undercurrent.

The pressure on Nick's chest became heavier as Owen drove his arm against him, pressing him as close to the wall as he was able and beginning to cut off Nick's airways. This might have to be a fight, Nick considered, with only vague sadness. He'd enjoy a good scrap with this idiotic madman. It would be amusing, and give him something to do. "I remember that that Hal bloke is a vampire. Freaky freak. His eyes were black, and he had fangs like Dracula. I came here to kill freaks."

"Really? Because that would involve some suicide, wouldn't it?" Nick couldn't resist a jab, even when Owen was in this state of mind, at his newfound nemesis.

The look on Owen's face would've been comical if the situation hadn't been so pitiful. "What?"

Nick was struck by a sudden idea. It was obvious that Owen was completely off the wall – one minute crowing about a murder he'd committed, the next saying he was going to kill vampires. He apparently had begun this attack with remembering who Nick was, but had quickly forgotten. He didn't even seem aware, now, of his own vampirism. He could play this to his own advantage. Owen wanted to kill Hal. Nick wanted… he didn't know what he wanted. For Hal to die? He didn't think so; not yet anyway. But either way, he wanted to see Hal again, and Owen was the only way he was going to do that.

Thinking quickly, Nick shook his head as much as his awkward position would allow. "It doesn't matter." He dismissed. "Listen, Owen, I know where Hal is. He'll be following you," he couldn't stop the sliver of jealousy slipping into his voice, but he continued regardless. "Where were you before you came here?"

There was a silence from Owen that lasted one, two, three, seconds before: "St Michael's Hospital." A look of unmistakable pain shadowed his face, and Nick wondered briefly how Owen had suffered in that place. He knew the building, and recalled the sense of uneasiness that permeated the air around it. He almost shuddered to imagine spending any amount of time there, and wondered further how much Owen could remember about it in his half-aware state.

"You'll have left a blood trail," He said, breathing quickly now. Owen had slightly loosened his grip on him and breathing was getting a little easier. "The smell on you is unmissable, especially to _Mr York's _great senses. He'll have tracked you like a bloodhound. In fact," he glanced over Owen's shoulder, causing Owen to turn around and let him go, "I think that's him and Annie, coming this way now."


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty Two<strong>

"_You think you'll walk away from something like this unscathed, but it's impossible. It all clings to you_…_"  
>– <em>_**Hal**__, __**"Being Human", Series 4 Episode 2**_

**Hal**

Even from his distance, Hal could see the surreal sight of Owen pinioning Nick against the wall where he'd been left, glaring at him. The smell pouring off Owen was making his head reel – _It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood – _and he almost staggered.

His heart almost started in surprise when Nick pushed Owen off and looked right at him, the fury smouldering in his gaze even from that far away. In hindsight though, Hal thought weakly, at least Nick hadn't wandered off and killed someone; that much couldn't be said for Owen. Not really caring, Hal briefly pondered on whom Owen had killed – it had obviously been someone he'd hated, because the stench of blood about him indicated he'd taken his time about it.

Walking briskly, he tried not to show is shock on his face when both Owen and Nick squared up, tensing their shoulders side-by-side, to face him and Annie. He almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation. He wouldn't have to actually _fight_ them, would he? Right here in the street, like common peasants?

"Annie," He said in a hushed, warning tone. "They might –"

"Fight us?" Her response was light, but laced with hypertension. "I can see that. But don't worry, I've fought vampire before. There was this guy once; Seth. He…" She trailed off, and Hal didn't give a second thought as to what Seth had done.

"I wasn't worried about that," He whispered now, because they were certainly in hearing range of the two antagonists. And, in truth, he wasn't worried about Annie being physically capable of fighting them. What bothered him was the idea, probably very well-founded, that Annie – with her natural kindness and pity – might not be able to raise a hand to her once-fiancé. He couldn't tell her this, however, because they were now face-to-face with the two vampires.

Trying to diffuse the tension in the air, Hal decided to adopt a stance of diplomacy and sanity to the situation, despite this never having worked in all the times he'd seen monarchs and generals attempt it. But, Hal reasoned, he had the upper hand over those historical figures: he was the creator of these two enemies.

"Good evening gentlemen." He said in a voice that lilted with slight threat. He watched with slight amusement as Nick flinched involuntarily, hearing the hinted menace in his once teacher's voice and being regressed to his studentship once again. Making the split decision to play this unwanted fear of Nick's to his advantage, Hal continued: "Are you really considering attempting to do battle? Owen," – he briefly turned to the newer vampire – "I wouldn't expect any less of you, I understand you are untrained and new to this lifestyle. And," he sniffed, "I also appreciate that you've taken advantage of the hunger that presides in you. Your scent is blood-ridden, young man, and I applaud you on your kill." Turning his gaze to Nick now, allowing some of his ancientness to momentarily crawl into his irises, he smiled. "But you, Nicholas, I'd expect better of you. Thinking you can fight me? Even allowing that blasphemy to cross your mind?"

Nick swallowed and Hal sighed, as if disappointed at his old student. Not allowing himself to blink, and keeping his dark gaze on Nick, he ploughed on: "However." He drew out the 'r' with a reverberating roll, and let the implications of the rest of the sentence settle in the air. He paid no heed to Annie, standing behind him in silence, and only had eyes for his creations. "I am willing to forgive this oversight" – a draw of breath from Nick – "_if_ –"

He didn't finish the sentence before bearing his fangs and blurring over to Owen, grabbing his neck and slamming him onto the tarmac with a bone shuddering crunching sound. Hal bent down over the younger vampire's sprawled body, his face as close to the other's as he could get without physically touching, and kept his hand tightly around his neck. Crouching beside him, Hal smiled. "Tut, tut, Owen." He chastised. _Don't turn around;_ _don't see Annie look at you. Keep your eyes fixed on Owen. _"So young and so naïve; so like a child. Stupidly trying to stand up to me – the one who gave you this gift."

The reply was barely audible, through the rapidly limiting space in his throat: "What gift, you goddamn freak?"

Hal stared down at him for second, so thrown that he was shocked into silence. Realising that to not reply would be a sign of weakness, he said, as simply as he could, "You are a vampire, Owen."

The response was instantaneous, both hilarious and horrific at the same time. Owen froze for a millisecond, before spasming. His limbs thrashed out to the side in sudden jerks as he lost control of his mind, and he shook his head in short movements as much as he was able to, being restrained from his neck. The words were hardly hissing from his mouth, but everyone could hear them: "No, no, no. Oh God no."

Pondering the kindness of what he was about to do, and questioning if there was still room on the Devil's list to record the sins that he had committed, Hal leant down until he was millimetres from Owen's ear, resting his knee on the younger vampire's chest, and whispered: "God doesn't listen to people like us, Owen," – he had a velvety way of saying people's names that made them want to beg – "but, even if He did, he would only turn away in dismay. God can't help you anymore. But I can."

"Hal–" Annie's high voice pierced his hearing and he winced for a second. She was a distraction; that was all. Why was she even there? Her irritating grey substance in the periphery of his vision was beginning to rile him. Without even glancing from Owen's eyes, Hal hissed at her to _shut up_.

"I can make this all go away, Owen." Hal continued, staring into his prisoner's eyes. He couldn't see his reflection in them – thank God – and all he was staring at was a sea of endless dark brown. The pupils were large and pitch black, tunnels to Owen's soul, and Hal couldn't help but recall when he'd recruited this particular specimen. How he'd shown no fear. How he'd stared at Hal resiliently, as if he'd known before what he was. He never did, Hal realised, find out why Owen had known about the existence of vampires. Keeping his eyes trained on Owen's, he said quietly: "You should look away, Annie."

Barely registering the sob that was her response, Hal gently put his hands on either side of Owen's head. Caressing his fingers in the younger vampire's hair, he smiled down at him. This tortured soul had had enough pain, enough suffering, and even Hal – in his half-cruel state – couldn't bring himself to inflict anymore upon him. He had learnt, in his five centuries, that you had to be cruel to be kind, and he was doing the kindest thing he possibly could.

"It's going to be alright, Owen." Hal whispered. He was surprised at the sorrow that lodged itself uncomfortably in his chest, and would've beaten it out if he hadn't had a task in hand.

"You'll make it go away?" Owen whispered, his eyes wide and trusting, so like a child. Not a shadow of fear was etched upon his face. If, in some dark recess of his ravaged mind, he understood what was about to happen, he wasn't afraid of it.

"I'll make the pain stop." Hal promised, dashing the tears in his eyes for forming. Why had he gotten so attached? In such a short space of time as well. Damn these human emotions; they were inescapable. If he could've gone through his existence in an empathic box, feeling nothing, he would have.

A wailing voice stereotypical in its ethereal quality drifted from somewhere behind them. "I love you Owen. You don't need to be scared anymore. And I am so, so sorry."

Recognition sparked in Owen's eyes, and he smiled. The sound of his once-love, his once-fiancé and best friend, was the last thing he heard. Just as Hal wrenched his neck, distorting the bones in his vertebrae with one fluid motion, he spoke: "Annie? I'm sorr–"

Then mist filled his eyes, and his form became dust in the blink of an eye. A swift gust of wind blew his remains from Hal's hand and into the air, making him one with the world and totally at peace, and taking with him the unfinished words he should have said long ago.


	23. Epilogue

**Title: **Blood and Tea

**Author: **Madasmonty

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **_"After his release, Owen tried to forget the fear. After Alex, Hal tried to forget the thirst. But Barry's a small place, and they run into each other. How long can the monsters keep playing at being human?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue<strong>

"_Where do I belong? Where do I fit? Who are my people? Where do my loyalties lie?"  
><em>_**– Mitchell, "Being Human", Series 1 Episode 3**_

"Go dry with me."

The statement is posed on a Tuesday, three weeks after Owen's death. The sunlight is pouring gently through the curtains and dappling the living room floor with pools of gold. The clock had been the only sound in the room, prior to the voice. It is late afternoon, and the two vampires sit on the sofa; not touching, but close beside one another.

Nick laughs curtly, the threat of an emotion resembling happiness is distinctive in his voice, before turning to Hal and realising he's not joking. "You can't be serious." He gasps, shocked.

"I owe it to Owen," Hal says, half to himself than to Nick. "I owe it to so many."

"It won't work, you know." Nick retorts, pessimistically.

Hal sighs quietly and nods. "I know it won't work forever – what really does? – But I can at least try."

The sound of clattering china can be heard from the kitchen as Annie makes countless cups of tea that nobody will drink. She pours mug after mug of boiling water and adds pint after pint of milk. Tom thinks she's insane, but doesn't say so. Hal understands, however. She is coping and moving on, hiding in her old tradition of mothering. She is just as fragile as he is, in her own way, and he makes a mental note to talk to her about coping techniques one day.

They had sat together for an unknown amount of time in silence – Annie and Hal. No words need to be exchanged between them, because it has all been said. They would manage, and they will do so together. Hal could sense, of course, the ever-present desire to collapse into his dark side. But he felt strong enough, at present, to ward off his demons. And Annie felt a hole in her heart, blown by the loss of Mitchell and widened by George, Nina and now Owen, which she began to fill with chores and, in time, new friends. In the days that followed, she felt the hole get a little smaller, piece by tiny piece.

"What do we have?" Nick asks, quietly. His voice holds traces of the old student in him, and echoes slightly with fear. Some things, Hal reasons, never change. "Apart from blood. What else is there?"

Hal thinks of Owen and his never finished apology to Annie. He thinks of Leo and Pearl, and the old barbershop in Southend. He recalls Allison and Tom, laughing together and parting for the greater good. He ponders on his six mothers and wonders, not for the first time, which one birthed him. He remembers the lives of so many friends – gone with the turn of his head. Like mayflies. "There is love, Nick." He says, softly.

Nick thinks of Rachel, and he remembers her face more clearly than he has done in the last half a century. He remembers her beautiful smile and her auburn hair, shining in the sunlight. He remembers her wedding ring – the silver diamond embedded in a band of gold. He remembers her laughter and her immovable happiness. He thinks of all he lost when he lost her, and all he gained too. And, for the first time in fifty years, he smiles a genuine smile.

"You are right, Mr York." He replies, stating Hal's name for the first time with no fear or malice or sarcasm. "There is love."

And isn't that all they need, in the end; the fact that they had chosen to be human?

**The End**


End file.
